Submission

Caroline arrived after lunch with a silk scarf in her pocket. She tied it over my eyes, then looped another around my wrists and pinned them above my head against the headboard. I heard her set her bag on the nightstand, the soft click of her heels across the floor, the faint snap as she undid the top button of her shirt. The mattress dipped under her knee. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of my underwear, tugged once, and let the elastic snap back against my skin. Breath touched the shell of my ear as she leaned in and told me exactly how long I would wait before I was allowed to move. A single fingertip traced the underside of my cock, feather-light, promising more if I stayed still. I could hear the wet slide of her tongue over her own lip, and it went straight to the tightening in my gut. She circled her thumb over the head, pressing just hard enough to spread the bead of slickness already waiting there. The room smelled of the warm cotton of her shirt and the darker musk rising between my own legs. When she finally closed her fist and stroked once, slow, from root to tip, the sensation shot straight up my spine and stole whatever breath I had left. She paused, let the heat build, then repeated the motion: deliberate, precise, the same measured pace each time, never faster than I wanted, never quite enough. Every pause lasted an extra second. Every time she squeezed the base I pushed up without thinking, earning a quiet, pleased laugh against my neck before she pulled away again. The blindfold pressed cool silk to fevered skin; the cuffs kept my hands empty. I stayed right where she put me, cock flushed and throbbing, waiting for the next deliberate stroke while she whispered how long she planned to keep me like this—naked, bound, and entirely hers.