Midsummer
DelphineDelphine feels like she’s lived entire lives in this room.
She’s shackled to a leather-upholstered thing which is mostly bed, but partly bench, and studded all over with convenient bolts and eyes and hooks for binding down submissives. There’s no walls as such, just the facsimile of walls made with cheap black curtains, and the ceiling is the warehouse’s ceiling—so high above her that she can barely make out the metal girders holding it up.
She can’t remember any noise that’s not the cool snap of Rebecca’s voice or the harsh buzz of the vibrator. She can’t remember any smell other than the bouquet of s*x and Rebecca’s own scent—mossy, botanical, green.
She can’t remember any other feeling than this: acute, miserable pleasure.
“Once more,” Rebecca says, and Delphine
