Chapter 3: Objects of Desire

You think I’m going to pin you down and fuck you senseless, don’t you? You’re imagining me buckling into a harness, strapping on something thick and unforgiving, and playing the part of the ruthless domme you’ve been craving. You want me to let you scream, thrash, and lose yourself in those twisted fantasies that make your pulse race and your thighs slick. I can see it in the way your chest heaves, your wrists tugging against the silk ropes that bind you to your own bed, spread wide and vulnerable. The air’s thick with your anticipation, your scent, your need. Those little hints you’ve been dropping—the way you arch your back, the stories you’ve let slip about the things you’ve done—you’re no stranger to this game. You’ve danced with darker souls than me, taken rougher hands, sharper bites. But if I’m going to give you what you want, it’s got to be something you never saw coming, something that cracks you open and leaves you begging for more.

I peel off my leather gloves, one finger at a time, letting them fall to the hardwood floor with a soft thud. My hand moves to you, no hesitation, no warning. I slide my index finger between your thighs, parting your slick folds, plunging into that molten heat. Your eyes flicker—shock, hunger, a flash of defiance. What, no teasing? No slow circles on your clit? But as my finger sinks deeper, your head tips back, a low moan spilling from your lips. You don’t need foreplay, darling. You’re already dripping, your body a traitor to whatever pride you’re clinging to. I add a second finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck, chasing the pressure, greedy for more. You’re a furnace, and I’m only stoking the flames.

I pull back, and your eyes snap open, a silent plea. But I’m not here to play by your rules. I reach into my bag and pull out a knife—sleek, matte black, the kind of blade that looks like it could carve through bone. Your breath catches, your body tensing as I trail the flat of it across your stomach, the cold metal kissing your flushed skin. You think I’m going to play dirty, maybe draw a thin line of red, just enough to make you gasp. But I flip the knife, gripping the blade carefully, and press the smooth, curved handle against your entrance. Your eyes go wide, a sharp inhale as I ease it in, slow and deliberate, letting you feel the weight of something so wrong, so forbidden. It’s not a toy, not meant for this, and that’s what makes your thighs tremble, your pulse hammer in your throat. You’re straining against the ropes now, not to escape, but to feel more, to see how far I’ll take you.

I lean close, my lips brushing your ear. “You like that, don’t you?” I murmur, my voice low, a velvet blade. “You’re wondering what else I’ve got for you.” I pull the knife away, setting it aside, and grab a Sharpie from my bag. I pop the cap with my teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and scrawl my name across your chest in bold, looping letters. A claim you’ll feel long after the ink fades. Then I take the marker itself—thick, unyielding plastic—and press it against you, sliding it in with a slow twist. Your breath hitches, your legs shaking as I work it deeper. Ever done this before? Sneaked something like this under the covers as a kid, heart pounding, terrified but too desperate to stop? The marker’s not big, but it’s foreign, hard, and the way you’re clenching around it tells me it’s hitting nerves you didn’t know you had.

Your apartment’s a treasure trove, and I’m a thief with a twisted mind. I ignore the drawer full of toys—silicone dildos, vibrating wands—too predictable, too tame. Instead, I grab a stainless steel water bottle from your nightstand, still chilled from the fridge, condensation beading on its surface. I roll a condom over it, smirking at the way your eyes widen, half-laughing, half-panicked. You think I won’t. Oh, but I do. I press it against you, cold and unyielding, and work it in, inch by inch, watching your face contort—pleasure, shock, a flicker of fear. It’s bigger than you expected, stretching you in ways that make your breath come in short, desperate bursts. “Good girl,” I whisper, my hand steady as I push it deeper. Your body fights it, then surrenders, and the sounds you’re making are raw, unfiltered, a symphony of need.

I pull it out, tossing it aside with a clatter, and grab a candle from your dresser—unlit, but warm from the room’s heat. I tilt it, letting a single drop of wax hit your inner thigh, making you flinch. But it’s the smooth, tapered end I slide inside you, moving it in slow, deliberate circles. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation, and I can’t help but grin. “Look at you,” I say, my voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Taking everything I give you.” Your eyes are glassy now, your body a live wire, every nerve screaming for release.

I’m relentless, rummaging through your kitchen, your bathroom, turning your world into my playground. A wooden spoon from a drawer, its handle worn smooth, gets a condom and a slow, deep thrust, making you whimper as it stretches you in unexpected ways. Then a cucumber from your fridge, firm and chilled, makes you gasp as I work it in, your body trembling with the effort to take it. A glass perfume bottle, its curved neck slick with your own desire, slides in next, and you’re moaning now, loud enough I’m sure your neighbors can hear. Everything I touch becomes mine, marked by your scent, your surrender. Your apartment will never feel the same.

I step back, surveying my work. You’re a vision—skin flushed, hair tangled, body taut against the ropes, every inch of you screaming for release. I see the way you’re biting your lip, holding back, too proud to beg. But you want to. I can feel it, a current running between us, electric and dangerous. I could make you fuck yourself with a hairbrush, a wine bottle, maybe even that vintage Polaroid camera on your shelf, snapping a shot of you mid-moan for my own private gallery. I could tie your hands free and order you to shove a flashlight inside yourself, watch you squirm under my gaze. But I’m not done playing yet.

I lean close, my breath hot against your ear. “You think you’re ready for me to stop?” I murmur, my fingers trailing down your stomach, stopping just short of where you need them most. “Not yet, darling. I’m just getting started.” I grab a silk scarf from your closet, dragging it across your skin, slow and teasing, then switch to the rough edge of a loofah, scraping lightly against your clit until you’re whimpering. A chain necklace, cold and heavy, follows, then the soft bristles of a makeup brush, each texture pulling a different sound from you—gasps, moans, a choked sob that makes my blood sing.

I kneel between your legs, my face inches from you, and blow a soft stream of air across your swollen clit. Your hips jerk, a desperate plea, and I laugh, low and cruel. “You want it so bad, don’t you?” I say, picking up a feather from your desk—a ridiculous thing, probably from some costume—and trailing it across your inner thighs, your stomach, your breasts. Your body arches, chasing the lightest touch, and I know I’ve got you exactly where I want you.

But I’m not cruel, not entirely. I see the way your eyes are pleading, your body begging for release. I grab a small, ridged glass bottle—some fancy essential oil from your bathroom—and roll a condom over it, sliding it in with a slow, steady push. Your moan is guttural, primal, and I work it in and out, watching your face, your chest, the way your whole body trembles on the edge. “Come for me,” I whisper, my voice a command, and I press my thumb against your clit, circling just once.

Your body seizes, a cry tearing from your throat as you shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through you, pulling you under. I don’t stop, not yet, working the bottle through every pulse, every shudder, until you’re spent, limp against the ropes, your breath ragged.

I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans, and look down at you. You’re a masterpiece—ruined, radiant, mine. I untie the ropes, letting them fall away, but I don’t touch you, don’t offer comfort. You’re still catching your breath when I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “Next time,” I say, my voice cool, “you’ll beg.”

I walk out, leaving you there, the room heavy with the scent of you, every object a reminder of what I’ve done. You’ll think of me every time you see that Sharpie, that candle, that fucking cucumber. And you’ll want more.