He threads the end through and pulls until I feel a gentle, even pressure on both sides of my windpipe. My airway narrows and the world gets soft around the edges, cottony and distant. Every sensation below my neck doubles in intensity. I can feel my own pulse thudding against the leather.
I whimper something that vaguely resembles a yes. Even if I could speak, I don’t want to change anything. The pressure is too perfect, just enough to remind me that he’s here and he’s holding me. If I needed him to stop, he would. But I don’t need him to stop.
I reach back blindly and grab his hip, pulling him closer. He exhales against my ear and tugs the belt again, and I melt.
But even then, he doesn’t rush it. Bastard that he is, he lets me stand there anxiously waiting, skirt hiked to my ribs, un
