That was the moment I knew she had gone deeper than I ever intended. And I followed her.
Out came the tools—feathers, clamps, silk cords, a vial of L-9 warmed between my palms like sacred fire. There was no checklist, no script. Only Maria, laid bare in every sense of the word, trembling with anticipation as I circled her, deciding where to begin.
I started with contrast. A feather across her collarbone. A kiss to her neck. Gentle things. Cruel in their kindness because she knew what would come next. Her skin flushed beneath each light pass of sensation, her breath fluttering with every pause. I watched the muscles in her belly tighten, watched her nipples harden from expectation alone.
Then I pinched one.
Hard.
Her gasp cracked the silence, and I swallowed it with my mouth on hers. She kissed me like a dying woman drinking water, full of thirst, hunger and desperation, every breath laced with thank yous' she couldn't speak aloud.
I moved lower, slipping a clamp around her breast—not too tight, just enough to draw out a whimper. The other followed. Her back arched as the pressure settled in, eyes glassy and fluttering.
"Count it," I said.
"One," she whispered, her voice breaking already.
I reached between her thighs. Wet. Scalding. Her body was writing poetry against my fingers, every line a verse of surrender.
I used heat gel next, massaging it into her inner thighs, just shy of the place she ached the most. The burn began slowly, simmering under the skin. She squirmed in the chair, moaning through the clamps' tug, whispering my name like it was a spell and she was desperate to be cursed.
Then came the ice.
A cold compress traced down her stomach, a sharp counterpoint to the growing heat below. She screamed—not from pain, but from confusion, the delightful, unbearable torment of being pulled in two directions at once. Pleasure. Pain. Fire. Ice. Her body no longer knew how to categorize the sensations. Her mind had already surrendered; only instinct remained.
When I touched her between her legs, she was sobbing.
Not from sorrow.
From relief.
I slipped two fingers inside her while keeping my other hand on her mouth to muffle the scream that burst from her throat. She bucked against me, trying to ride my hand, desperate for permission.
But she didn't get to come yet.
Not until she begged.
Not until she broke.
I withdrew my fingers, licked them clean with deliberate, slow satisfaction, and knelt in front of her.
"You'll wait," I said. "You'll learn."
Then I began again—this time slower, more methodical, teasing every raw nerve. I used the riding crop next, tracing the leather down the inside of her thighs before giving her one, then two sharp slaps that left delicious red streaks behind. She cried out, jerking in the restraints, tears streaking down her cheeks now freely, beautiful in her unraveling.
"I want to come," she sobbed. "Please… please let me come."
"You'll come when I say your name."
She choked on a sob, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief. "Dr. Lush…"
"Not yet."
I flicked the clamp on her breast. She screamed again. Her legs shook. Her muscles fluttered. She was right at the edge—dancing on the knife's tip of release.
And I waited.
Until she whimpered, broken and whole all at once, "I'm yours. All of me. My body, my soul… my fucking mind. I belong to you. Please, Dr. Lush. Please…"
Only then did I lower myself between her thighs.
She was trembling—body slick with sweat, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Her legs fell open not just in invitation, but in worship. I settled between them like a man kneeling at an altar, every nerve alive with the knowledge that what I was about to do wasn't clinical, wasn't therapeutic. It was possession.
My mouth found her, and I tasted sin.
Hot. Wet. Wild.
I devoured her with no mercy, no tenderness—only purpose. My tongue dragged through her folds, slow and flat, savoring the way her body bucked against the leather restraints. Her hips tried to rise but I pinned them down, forcing her to feel everything. I circled, flicked, teased, applying pressure in maddening patterns, until her thighs shook and her voice cracked in a choked scream.
The first orgasm hit like a seizure—sharp, primal, terrifying in its honesty. Her body locked around my mouth, her hands clutching the chair like a drowning woman clutching driftwood. And I didn't stop.
I kept going.
Licking. Pressing. Sucking. Building a new crescendo beneath the raw notes of her cry. The wet sounds of my tongue working her folds mixed with the desperate slap of her thighs against the chair. She gasped, whimpered, tried to push me away—but her body betrayed her, begging for more even as it trembled from too much.
Then I rose.
Eyes locked on hers, pupils blown wide and glassy, lips parted in silent pleading. I lined myself against her and entered slowly—inch by inch—watching her react not just with her voice, but with her soul. Her entire body arched to receive me, the heat inside her nearly unbearable. Her slick folds gripped me like a velvet fist, clenching and fluttering as I buried myself to the hilt.
And then the sound began.
Wet. Loud. Rhythmic.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Each thrust collided with her soaked skin, echoing off the walls like a hymn sung by flesh. I drove into her with a deliberate tempo—slow at first, then cruel in its escalation. Her nails clawed at my shoulders, her cries rising in pitch as her body convulsed, unable to process the sheer overload of sensation. Her eyes rolled back. Her breath caught in sobs. She wasn't moaning anymore—she was wailing.
I fucked her like I was erasing every memory that wasn't mine.
Hard. Deep. Final.
And she took all of it. Welcomed it. Needed it.
"Dr. Lush," she cried. "I feel you everywhere…"
I bent down, kissed the tears from her cheeks, then whispered against her lips, "That's because I'm inside everywhere."
Her body clamped down, spasming in a violent, soul-ripping climax. Her scream echoed through the sanctum, open and guttural, like something sacred breaking wide. Her thighs shook. Her arms gave out. She collapsed beneath me—but I didn't stop.
Not until I came inside her with a groan that felt like surrender.
Not until I marked her as mine.
And when we were both trembling and undone, sweat-drenched and shaking, I gathered her into my arms and held her—because something that raw, that honest, deserved reverence.
And she clung to me—not out of weakness, but as a woman who had finally found a storm strong enough to worship her fire.
"You ruined me," she whispered.
Her voice was threadbare—frayed at the edges like silk dragged across stone. It didn't carry accusations. It carried awe.
"No," I said, brushing the damp strands of hair from her temple, tracing her flushed cheek with the back of my hand. I leaned in and pressed my lips gently to her forehead, letting the kiss linger. "I showed you what you already were."
She looked up at me then, eyes wide and unguarded, pupils still rimmed in the aftermath of ecstasy. They shimmered with something deeper than lust—recognition. "I was always like this?"
"Yes," I murmured. "You were just waiting for someone to see it."
I cradled her against me, her head tucked under my chin as my fingers began a slow, deliberate descent along her spine—vertebrae by vertebrae, a sensual caress that felt more like a hymn than a touch. Her skin quivered under my hand, each pass drawing a soft gasp from her lips, the edges of overstimulation still licking through her nerves like residual flame.
I didn't stop at the base of her spine.
My hand gilded lower, curving gently along the swell of her ass, then down between her legs where she was still slick, swollen, gloriously tender. I let my fingers hover, barely brushing against her folds—ghosting through the remnants of what we had just shared. She shivered in my arms, her thighs parting reflexively, a breath catching in her throat.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
We both knew it wasn't arousal now—it was affirmation. The kind that lives in the aftermath. The kind that craves to be touched even after being thoroughly claimed.
I let my fingers trail slowly along her heat, not pressing, just tracing—honoring. She twitched in response, whimpering softly, and curled tighter into me like I was the only safe place left in the world.
And yet… even in the sacred stillness, a shadow crept in.
The taste of guilt, bitter and slow-burning, coiled at the back of my mind. The weight of what we'd done pressed against my ribcage—not with regret, but with realization. This was no longer medicine. No longer healing. No longer anything I could hide behind science or protocol.
She wasn't a patient anymore.
She was a confession I hadn't meant to speak.
And I was her proof.
Maria's submission wasn't a weakness. It was worship. But the look in her eyes told me she had seen something in me too—something I hadn't intended to reveal. Every time I bound her tighter, it was my own restraint that frayed. Every time she begged me to take her deeper, it was me that got lost.
My fingers curled protectively against her folds as she fell into sleep, and I realized with sharp clarity: we were no longer therapist and patient.
We were flame and oxygen.
And we were already burning.