FAOTwenty-one days.I knew because Seraphina told me. She liked to mark the milestones. Liked to remind me exactly how long I'd been hers.The third week had been different from the others.The first week, she'd used isolation and starvation. Classical conditioning — her presence meant food, water, human contact. By the end of it, my body lifted toward the door every time it opened, desperate for stimulus.The second week, she'd introduced the table. The edging. Teaching my body to respond to her touch, to crave it even as my mind recoiled. By the end of that week, I got hard when I heard her heels on the stairs.This week, she'd added pain.It started on day fifteen.She arrived with a new case — larger than before, filled with things I didn't want to identify. Crops and floggers and clamps. Candles and cuffs and implements whose purposes I could only guess at."You've been so good," she'd said, circling the table where I lay strapped down. "So responsive. But I think you're ready f
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