You look at the man, who obviously likes being hit, and at the domme, who seems the soul of professionalism – and the butler, your guard, standing near.
“Why not?” you say, feeling bold. She smiles wickedly at you.
“Why not indeed? Take off your shirt and b*a and skirt.”
Her tone is demanding – but you asked for it. You take your clothing off, like she said, leaving only your underwear on, hiding your breasts from the butler with your arms.
“Come here,” she says and points to the cross. You stand in front of it, and she locks your ankles into shackles, snug, but not too tight. Then she reaches for your arm, and you realize just what you’ve gotten yourself into here. One wrist, and then the other, and then it’s too late, as she moves your hair off to one side. There’s a gap between you
