Joseph moves me through dinner feeding me the best crabmeat casserole I’ve ever eaten, and a Caesar salad.
“You made this yourself?”
“No. I have a French chef nearby who comes in and cooks for me when I ask.”
“And translates the passages you can’t read?”
He just laughs.
Aphrodisiac food—all of it—including the Belgium chocolates and the brandy-soaked fruit for dessert. The sensations are so strong that by the time Joseph pulls a gold rope out from underneath the table, I’m about to orgasm. Everything he’s offered feeds me, both what’s ingested and what works directly on my physical imagination.
I rise as he orders, and grasp my hands behind my back. Slipping the silky cord over my wrists, he then draws it tight to bind them firmly.
“Hurt?”
“No.”
“Close your eyes,” he orders next.
