Elara
We returned to London on Sunday evening, the Cotswolds feeling like a dream that faded the moment the city lights appeared. The penthouse welcomed us with its familiar cool elegance marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, the quiet hum of the city far below. But something had shifted between us during that weekend away. The s*x had been slower, more intimate, almost tender at times. Yet the power dynamic remained sharper, deeper, more addictive.
Monday morning came too quickly.
I stood in front of the mirror in the walk-in closet, adjusting the fitted black dress Damian had laid out for me. High neckline. Modest length. Professional enough for the office. But underneath? Nothing. No bra. No panties. And deep inside me, the Ben Wa balls were back — three heavy, weighted spheres
