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I show basic grappling positions, showing her how to escape when pinned. Each time my body covers hers, I feel the shift in her breathing, the way she responds to my weight and proximity. Distance erodes with each point of contact.
“Your body needs to respond automatically.” I pin both her wrists in my hand. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s hard when you’re—“ She cuts herself off, but her meaning is clear from the way her hips shift beneath mine.
“Fear and arousal share the same chemical pathways,” I say, my voice dropping lower as I maintain the hold. “Learning to control both keeps you alive.”
Her pupils dilate. “Is that what we’re doing? Survival training?”
“Among other things.” I release one wrist, trailing my fingers down her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. “Stress management is critical in high-pressure situations.”
“And how exactly do we manage that?” Her now-free hand rests cautiously against my chest.
“By controlling the response.” I slide my hand beneath her shirt, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. “By learning when to surrender and when to fight.”
Her breath catches. “Show me.”
It’s all the permission I need. I capture her mouth with mine, feeling her immediate surrender. This isn’t like last night’s desperate claiming. This is intentional, and somehow more intense for it. I bite her lower lip, just hard enough to make her gasp, then soothe the sting with my tongue.
“Lesson one,” I murmur against her throat. “Control.”
I pin both her wrists above her head with one hand, my fingers easily encircling both. With my free hand, I pull her shirt up. Her breasts heave with each breath, nipples hardening against the simple cotton bra. I tear that away, needing to see all of her.
“You’ll learn to be still under any stimulation,” I tell her, my voice dropping to a register I barely recognize. I trace slow, intricate patterns down her torso, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. When I reach her waistband, I don’t hesitate, unbuttoning her pants and sliding my hand inside, past damp cotton underwear, to find her already wet.
She arches into my touch with a broken moan.
“No,” I command, withdrawing completely. “Stay still. I’ll tell you when to move.”
Her eyes widen with understanding as I tease her, circling her clit with deliberate slowness, watching her fight the instinct to buck against my hand. The first time she fails, grinding against my fingers, I pull away entirely. The second time, her hips lift just slightly, and again I withdraw, leaving her trembling and unfulfilled.
“That’s impossible,” she gasps after the third time, frustration and need written across her flushed face.
“It’s necessary,” I counter, resuming the torturous pace. I push two fingers inside her, feeling her inner walls clench around me, hot and tight. With my thumb, I continue the circles against her clit. “Your body, your reactions, they belong to you. Then to me. Never to fear. Never to panic.”
Her entire body quivers with the effort of remaining motionless as I bring her closer to the edge. Sweat beads along her hairline, her pupils blown wide with arousal. When she finally maintains perfect stillness despite the trembling effort it costs her, I reward her by curling my fingers to stroke that spot inside her that makes her breath hitch. I increase the pressure, the pace of my thumb against her clit, seeing her struggle to keep her hips from bucking.
“Good girl,” I murmur, noting how the praise makes her inner muscles clench around my fingers. “You’re learning.”
The whimper that escapes her is half protest, half plea. I build the pressure, pushing her toward the edge but demanding she hold back.
“This is control,” I explain, watching her fight her body’s instincts. “This is survival.”
When she’s shaking with restraint, eyes glazed and breath coming in quick gasps, I finally give permission. “Now.”
The orgasm that tears through her is violent in its intensity, her body convulsing beneath my hands. Her back arches off the floor, her restraint broken as waves of pleasure crash through her. I watch the transformation on her face, the initial shock, the surrender, the complete abandonment of control. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parted in a silent cry that eventually finds voice. The sound of her release echoes through the cabin, raw and unrestrained.
I don’t allow her the luxury of recovery. Before the aftershocks have subsided, I resume, watching her eyes fly open in surprise and what might be protest. The overstimulationmakes her try to pull away, her body hypersensitive, but my grip on her wrists remains firm.
“We’re not done,” my voice a low command. “Real survival means pushing past your limits.”
She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t?—“
“You can,” I insist, continuing the relentless pace. “And you will.”
The second climax builds differently, slower, deeper, more powerful. I watch her face as my fingers work deliberately against her most sensitive spots, noting how her resistance gradually transforms into surrender. Each time she approaches the edge, I pull back, denying her just as she’s about to fall over. Once, twice, three times I bring her to the precipice only to withdraw, watching her frustration and need build to almost unbearable levels.
“Please,” she begs, her voice ragged. “I can’t take anymore.”
