The sky outside the high, curtainless window had turned slightly orange when I stirred awake. My throat was still a little bit sore from screaming and moaning, my thighs were stained with dried and fresh c*m, my p***y so swollen that every step sent sparks up my spine. I thought he was letting me rest well.
Instead the moment he saw that I had woken up, he looped a soft black rope around my wrists, kissed the inside of each palm gently, almost tender, then led me across the room to the St. Andrew’s cross.
“Up,” he said.
I obeyed on shaky legs, my back pressing to the cool, X-shaped cross. The wood smelled faintly of leather and wood polish. He buckled my wrists high above my head first, then knelt to spread my ankles wide apart, securing them to the lower arms of the cross. The positio
