The Cage: 11. Chains of Obsession

The cuffs didn’t come off that night.

Or the next.

He kept her bound, wrists chained high above her head, ankles tethered to the frame of the bed. She was spread, displayed, her body aching from tension, her skin raw where the leather dug into her. He fed her only when he wanted to, touched her only when he pleased.

And always, always, he left her wanting.

Orgasm after orgasm denied, her body trembled on the edge of madness. Every brush of his fingers, every thrust of his tongue, every cruel pause of his cock pressed against her but not inside her—it all fed into a singular torment. She didn't know how long she could endure this. 

“You think you’ve won me,” he murmured one night, standing over her, shirt unbuttoned, belt hanging loose in his hand. “But all you’ve done is awaken the part of me I tried to bury.”

Her lips were cracked from thirst, her throat raw from moans and screams. But her smile was still there, faint and dangerous. “Good,”