The Collar

The leather was cool against Vienna's throat.

Ezra stood over her, his masked face unreadable, his fingers working the buckle at the back of the collar. The strap sat snug against her skin, not tight enough to choke, just tight enough to remind her it was there. A small silver ring dangled at the front, catching the low red light of the room.

She had never worn anything like it. Never imagined she would.

But as the buckle clicked shut, something shifted inside her chest. A door opening. A key turning. She was not Vienna Cross anymore, the girl with the dying brother and the empty bank account. She was his. Just for tonight. Just for this room.

"There," he murmured. "That is better."

He stepped back to look at her.

She was still on her back on the dark gray sheets, legs pressed together, arms at her sides because she did not know what to do with them. The black lace lingerie felt flimsy now, almost useless. His gaze traveled from her face down to her collarbone, then lower, and she fought the urge to cover herself.

"Do not hide from me," he said softly. "Not tonight."

"I am not hiding."

"Your arms disagree. You want to cross them over your chest. You want to curl into a ball and disappear. But you will not, because you came here to be seen. Did you not?"

Vienna swallowed. The collar pressed against her throat as she did. "Yes, Sir."

"Then let me look at you."

She forced her hands to stay at her sides. Forced herself to hold still under his stare. It was the hardest thing she had ever done, harder than watching the doctors wheel Silas into surgery, harder than telling her parents she had no money left to give.

But she did not look away.

"Good girl," he said again, and those two words sent a fresh wave of heat between her thighs.

He reached for the velvet box on the table and pulled out the black silk ropes. They were long and soft, coiled neatly, nothing like the rough rope she had imagined. He held them up so she could see.

"I am going to tie your wrists to the headboard," he said. "You will be able to move, but not escape. You will not need to escape, because you have your safe word. Red. Say it and everything stops. No questions. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Have you ever been restrained before?"

"No, Sir."

His dark eyes softened for just a fraction of a second. "Then we will go slowly. If at any point you feel fear that is not the good kind, you tell me. Not just red. You tell me with words. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"I need your voice, princess."

"Yes, Sir. I can tell you."

He moved to the headboard and looped one rope around the left post, tying it with quick, efficient movements. Then he came back to her side and took her left wrist. His hand was warm. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling her heartbeat.

"You are racing," he observed.

"I am nervous."

"Good nervous or bad nervous?"

She thought about it. Her stomach was tight. Her breath was shallow. But underneath that, there was something else, something bright and hungry that had been asleep her whole life and was now waking up.

"Good nervous," she whispered.

He smiled. It was the first real smile she had seen from him, not a smirk or a curve of his lips but something genuine that reached his eyes. It transformed his face. Made him look almost kind.

Then he wrapped the silk around her wrist and tied it to the rope on the post.

The silk was cool against her skin. The knot was secure but not painful. She tugged once, testing, and the rope held.

"Too tight?"

"No, Sir."

"Good." He moved to the other side of the bed and repeated the process with her right wrist. "Now you are mine."

Vienna lay there, arms stretched above her head, wrists bound to the headboard, and waited. The position pulled her body taut, arching her back slightly, pushing her chest upward. She felt exposed in a way that should have been humiliating.

Instead, it felt like coming home.

Ezra stepped back to the foot of the bed and looked at her. His gaze was heavy, slow, moving from her bound wrists down to her face, her throat, the curve of her breasts beneath the black lace, the flat of her stomach, the place where her thighs pressed together.

"Spread your legs," he said.

She hesitated for only a second. Then she opened her knees.

The cool air of the room touched her through the damp lace, and she shivered.

"Look at you," he said quietly. "Already soaked through. I have barely touched you, and you are dripping for me. Do you know how beautiful that is?"

No one had ever called her beautiful like that. Like she was art. Like she was something precious and filthy at the same time.

He knelt on the edge of the bed between her open legs. His weight sank the mattress, tilting her body toward him. He did not touch her yet. Just looked.

"Tell me what you want, Vienna."

"I want you to touch me."

"Where?"

She felt her face flush. "There."

His lips curved. "There is not a word. Use your words, princess. Where do you want me to touch you?"

"My pussy," she whispered, and the word felt foreign and filthy on her tongue. She had never said it out loud before.

"That is better." His hand moved to her inner thigh, fingers trailing up slowly, so slowly, until they reached the edge of her lace underwear. "You want me to touch you here?"

"Yes, Sir."

"To make you come?"

"Yes."

"You have never come before. Not with anyone. Not even by yourself. Is that still true?"

She nodded, embarrassed.

"Then your first orgasm will belong to me." He pressed his palm flat against her through the lace, and she gasped. Even through the fabric, even with just the pressure of his hand, the sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt. "Every moan. Every shudder. Every wave of pleasure. Mine."

"Yours," she echoed.

He pushed the lace aside with one finger.

Vienna's whole body jolted. He was looking at her, really looking, and she could not close her legs because he was between them, could not cover herself because her wrists were bound, could not do anything except lie there and let him see every part of her.

"So wet," he murmured. "And so sensitive. Has anyone ever put their mouth on you here?"

"No, Sir."

"No one has ever tasted you?"

"No."

His thumb found her clit. Just rested there. Not moving. Just pressing lightly, and her hips bucked upward without her permission.

"Please," she breathed.

"Please what?"

"Please move your thumb."

"Like this?" He circled once, slowly.

Vienna cried out. The sound was loud in the quiet room, desperate and raw, and she barely recognized her own voice.

"Yes, Sir. Like that. Please do not stop."

He did not stop. He circled again, then again, watching her face the entire time. Her back arched off the bed. Her bound hands gripped the silk ropes. The pleasure built fast, faster than she expected, a pressure coiling low in her belly that she had read about but never felt.

"I am," she gasped. "I think I am going to."

"Not yet." He stopped moving.

The pleasure receded instantly, leaving her empty and aching. She whimpered, actually whimpered like a wounded animal, and her eyes stung with frustrated tears.

"Why did you stop?"

"Because you do not come until I tell you to come." His voice was calm, unhurried, as if he had not just brought her to the edge and pushed her off. "That is how this works. Your pleasure belongs to me. That means I decide when you feel it and when you do not. Do you understand?"

She wanted to argue. She wanted to beg. She wanted to cry.

"Yes, Sir," she said instead.

"Good girl." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. "You are going to come for me tonight. More than once. But first, you are going to learn patience."

He pushed her lace underwear down her legs and tossed it aside. Then he settled between her thighs, his breath hot against her, and looked up at her with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"Now," he said. "I am going to taste you. And you are going to lie there and take it. You will not come until I say the word. If you do, I will stop for ten minutes and you will not be touched at all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good girl."

He lowered his mouth to her.

Vienna's mind went blank.

His tongue was soft and firm at the same time, lapping at her like she was something sweet. He groaned against her, a low sound of approval that vibrated through her entire body, and she tugged at the ropes without meaning to. The silk held.

He licked her slowly, deliberately, learning her. Every stroke of his tongue sent sparks up her spine. When he found her clit, she cried out again, louder this time, and her hips tried to grind against his face.

He pulled back immediately.

"No," he said. "You do not move. You lie still and you let me work. If you move again, I stop."

"I am sorry. I am sorry, Sir. I will be still."

He waited until her body relaxed against the sheets. Then he lowered his mouth again.

This time she forced herself to stay still. It was torture. His tongue circled her clit, flattened against her, flicked back and forth. The pressure built again, that coiling heat in her belly, and she could feel herself getting close. Too close. She was going to come whether he said the word or not.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, Sir, I am going to."

"Not yet."

"I cannot stop it."

"Yes, you can. Breathe. Focus on my voice, not your body. You are in control here, Vienna. Not your pleasure. You."

She tried. She really tried. But his tongue was relentless, and her body was screaming, and the coil in her belly was about to snap.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please, Sir, please let me come."

He lifted his head. His lips were wet with her. "Look at me."

She looked.

"Come for me, princess."

The word broke her.

Vienna's back arched off the bed. Her bound hands pulled at the ropes. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as the pleasure crashed over her, wave after wave, endless and overwhelming. She had never felt anything like it. She did not know her body could do this. She did not know pleasure could be this big, this consuming, this terrifying.

She sobbed. Not quiet tears. Real, ugly sobs that shook her whole body.

Ezra did not stop. He kept his mouth on her through the entire orgasm, gentler now, lapping at her softly as she shuddered and cried. When the last wave passed, he kissed her inner thigh and sat up.

Vienna lay there, breathing hard, tears streaming down her temples into her hair. She felt wrung out. Empty. Brand new.

"That," he said softly, "was your first orgasm."

She nodded, unable to speak.

"How do you feel?"

"Weird," she whispered. "Good. Scared. I do not know."

"That is normal." He reached up and untied her wrists, one then the other. The silk fell away. He took her hands and rubbed her wrists gently where the ropes had pressed. "You did so well, princess. So well."

He pulled her upright and wrapped his arms around her. She collapsed against his chest, still crying, still shaking, and he held her. No words. Just his heartbeat under her ear and his hand stroking her hair.

She had not been held like this in years.

After a long time, her tears slowed. Her breathing evened out. She became aware of her body again, the sweat cooling on her skin, the throb between her legs, the collar still snug around her throat.

"We are not done," he said quietly.

She pulled back to look at him. "I know."

"Are you still with me?"

"Yes, Sir."

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. "Then stand up. It is time for the ropes again. But this time, you will be on your knees."

Vienna's heart raced, but she stood.

She was terrified.

She was hungry.

And she wanted more.