Her body was a limp, trembling canvas, painted with sweat and tears. I stepped back, my gaze sweeping over the masterpiece of her surrender.
A soft, broken whimper was the only sound she made as I slowly, deliberately, reached up and untied the silk blindfold.
Her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light of the room. They were hazy, unfocused, but as they cleared, they locked onto me.
Then, as if drawn by a terrible magnetism, they flickered to the cabinet where I had retrieved the tools of her undoing. Fear, sharp and primal, warred with a dark, undeniable curiosity in their depths. Seeing the instruments gave the sensations a terrifying reality.
"You did well with the blindfold, Dominique," I said, my voice a calm, resonant hum. "But a true submissive doesn't need to shut out the world. She needs to face it. She needs to see what's being done to her, and see who is doing it. Understand?"
She could only manage a weak, tearful nod.
