Sex slave: Vivian

La Belle Dame Sans Merci steps out of Keats and straight into her private chamber. Vivian hangs bound to the wall, trembling. She waits for hours. Each minute stretches until time itself begins to feel like another knot drawn tight around her wrists. The Lady watches from a velvet chaise, legs crossed, a silver key turning slowly between her fingers. She never rushes. Anticipation is the game, and she plays it the way a cat plays with a bird she has no intention of eating. Vivian’s breath catches at every tiny sound: the click of heels, the whisper of silk sliding over skin. The Lady rises at last, circles close, traces a single nail along Vivian’s jaw. Pleasure and punishment have never been separate things for her. They bleed together until one becomes the other, until waiting itself grows wet and swollen and unbearably sweet.