The cool sting of the air conditioner danced across my bare skin, raising goosebumps that traveled from my shoulders down to the curve of my hips. My wrists were bound securely by cuffs on either side of the bed, my legs spread and anchored in the same way. The restraints were firm but not harsh, leaving just enough room for me to squirm, though I knew better than to test them. Blindfolded, I couldn't see a thing, but I felt everything—every shift of the mattress, every whisper of air, every nerve in my body alight with anticipation. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure it echoed in the room, a rhythm that matched the ache building deep inside me.
The door creaked open, and footsteps entered—slow, deliberate, commanding. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the thick saliva pooling under my tongue. He had left me like this for an hour, teasing me with his absence, letting my mind wander into dangerous, delicious places. Now, he was here, and I could feel him standing at the foot of the bed, his presence heavy, electrifying.
I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being undone, the leather sliding free from its loops. My breath hitched, my chest rising and falling rapidly as panic and desire collided. The rustle of fabric followed—his shirt, then his pants, then his boxers. The soft rip of a foil packet made my stomach tighten. A condom. Of course. He was meticulous, always in control, always prepared. A low groan escaped him, and I could picture it—his hand wrapping around his length, rolling the condom down, readying himself for me.
The mattress dipped as he climbed onto the bed, his weight shifting closer. His hand brushed against my ankle, and I flinched, the touch sending a spark up my leg. God, his hands were warm, rough yet gentle, familiar yet thrilling. He traced a path up my calf, his fingers gliding over my skin with a tenderness that contradicted the intensity of the situation. My breath came in shaky bursts as he moved higher, his touch igniting every inch of me.
He paused at my thigh, his fingers lingering just above where I needed him most. I clenched my teeth, fighting the urge to beg, to plead for him to touch me there. But the rules were clear: I wouldn't speak unless he asked me to. He was testing me, reading me, waiting for the moment I'd break. And though every fiber of my being screamed for release, I held firm.
His hand slid upward, brushing lightly across my stomach, the pad of his thumb tracing circles around my navel. I shuddered, my hips involuntarily lifting off the bed, seeking more of his touch. He chuckled softly, the sound low and dark, before continuing his exploration, his fingers trailing up the center of my chest. He stopped just between my breasts, his palm resting there, feeling the rapid rise and fall of my breaths. My skin burned where he touched me, the heat radiating outward, consuming me.
His hand moved higher, skimming over my collarbone, my throat, my jawline. His fingertips traced the curve of my cheek, and I turned my face toward him instinctively, craving more. Then he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "May I?" he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper that sent a shiver down my spine.
I nodded frantically, unable to form words even if I'd been allowed to. His lips brushed against the shell of my ear, soft at first, then harder as he sucked gently, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my core. His hand roamed the other side of my body, mirroring the path of his mouth, tracing lines of fire across my skin. He moved down my jaw, his lips leaving a trail of kisses that made me tremble. When he reached my neck, he nipped lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue, his breath hot against my pulse.
He continued downward, kissing the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder, the swell of my breast. His tongue flicked against my nipple, and I gasped, my back arching off the bed. His free hand found my other breast, his fingers pinching and rolling the sensitive peak until I was writhing beneath him. He was everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his body—consuming me, owning me.
His lips trailed lower, kissing a path down the center of my stomach, stopping briefly at my navel before moving to my hips. Each kiss was deliberate, slow, maddening. When his lips brushed against the sensitive skin just above my core, I whimpered, my hips jerking instinctively. "Mm," he hummed, the sound vibrating against my skin like a promise. "May I?"
Again, I nodded, my body trembling with need. He didn't waste another moment. I felt the soft buzz of the vibrator before he pressed it to my nipple, the sensation sharp and electric. At the same time, his mouth descended on me, his tongue parting my folds with a languid sweep. I cried out, biting down on my lower lip to stifle the sound. He licked and sucked in tandem with the vibrator, the dual sensations overwhelming, unbearable.
When he pulled away, leaving me empty and aching, I almost sobbed. But then I felt him shift between my legs, his hands gripping my hips as he positioned himself. The vibrator's buzzing sounded again, this time closer, teasing me, taunting me. He slid one finger inside me, and I gasped, my head falling back against the pillows. A second finger joined the first, curling and thrusting in a rhythm that made my toes curl. The vibrator pressed against my clit, sending waves of pleasure crashing through me.
"You're so close, aren't you?" he growled, his voice thick with desire. I nodded desperately, my body trembling on the edge. "Beg," he commanded, his fingers pumping faster, the vibrator intensifying its vibrations.
."Please, daddy," I begged, my voice trembling as much as my legs. They were already shaking, and I was on the verge of exploding. He didn't reply, but I felt it—his fingers thrusting deeper, the vibrator's speed increasing, the pressure building until I couldn't hold back any longer.
"Come," he commanded, his voice low and demanding. And I did. My body convulsed as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, my hips bucking uncontrollably against his hand. I screamed, lost in the blinding ecstasy he brought me to, my mind blank except for the euphoria that consumed me.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I groaned, turning onto my side with an irritated huff and slapped the alarm off. My heart was still racing, my skin slick with sweat, and my core throbbing with the remnants of the dream—or memory—that had awakened me.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, and I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. The dream had been so vivid, so real, that I could still feel his hands on me, his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear. I glanced downward, pulling the blanket aside, and sure enough, I was soaked. My body hadn't forgotten a single detail.
I reached for the drawer beside my bed, pulling out my vibrator with trembling hands. Sliding it under the blanket, I positioned it against my core, and as soon as it buzzed to life, my head fell back into the pillow. My hand found my nipple, pinching and rolling it as I replayed every second of the dream in my mind. The pleasure was overwhelming, my fingers gripping the sheets as I came hard, my body shaking uncontrollably.
I couldn't stop. I kept the vibrator pressed against me, letting it drain every last bit of energy from my body. His voice echoed in my head—"Count to 50." And I did, my breaths coming in ragged gasps as I clutched the vibrator, unwilling to let go until I reached that number. When I finally did, it slipped from my hand, and I curled into a ball, spent and trembling.
After lying there for what felt like forever, I stepped into the bathroom, the cold floor tiles shocking against my bare feet. My reflection in the mirror looked hollow, shadows lingering under my eyes—memories, maybe. Or ghosts.
I twisted the tap of the bathtub and watched the water rise, steam curling into the air like lazy smoke. The scent of lavender bath salts filled the room as I poured a generous amount in, trying to convince myself that a hot soak could erase a man engraved into my skin like ink.
Once the tub was full, I eased in, letting the warmth envelop me. It hugged every inch of me, but no amount of heat could melt the chill that settled deep in my chest every time I remembered him.
Mr. Stranger.
My head leaned back against the tub's edge as I stared at the ceiling, a pale blank canvas where my memories painted themselves too vividly. It had been two years since I last saw him. Two whole years, yet my body still responded like it had been yesterday. Sometimes I questioned whether I dreamt it all—if I'd conjured him from the loneliness and longing inside me.
But no.
My body didn't lie.
Neither did the way my hands still remembered exactly how he touched me.
I reached for my phone resting on a dry towel on the edge of the tub. Unlocking it with damp fingers, I instinctively opened the browser and typed in the same web address I'd searched a hundred times over these years.
404. Site not found.
I stared blankly at the screen.
It was gone. Just like him.
The anonymous adult-matching site where fantasies turned into reality. Where masks didn't fall because they were never worn. I had met him there. Mr. Stranger—no name, no details, only desire. Our chats were brief, minimal, to the point. He wasn't much of a talker, but when he did speak, his words felt like silk wrapping around my throat, leaving me breathless.
We agreed on three nights. Just three.
No real names, no photos, no numbers.
Only pleasure.
Only control.
He was my first Dom. And apparently, my last. Because no one, no one, since him, had come close to what I felt with him. Not in my bed, not in my mind, not even with my own hands.
It was like he ruined me for everyone else.
A part of me still waited. Still checked that website, still dreamed the same memory night after night. Every detail was etched into my soul—how he tied me, touched me, made me beg without words. The way he never broke character, and yet… some moments felt too real, too intimate to be just roleplay. He had understood me in ways I hadn't understood myself.
And then, he disappeared.
Just like the site.
"Elora!" my mother's voice rang through the bathroom door.
I closed my eyes, squeezing the phone in my hand.
"Elora, are you even in there?" she asked again, knocking a little louder.
"Yes, Mom!" I called back, my voice laced with annoyance as I rolled my eyes.
"Get out already! I need to talk to you about something!"
I sighed and muttered under my breath, "Let me guess… about your new boyfriend?"
Typical.
She changed men like I changed moods. Her relationships never lasted more than two weeks. Sometimes, I wasn't even sure if they were actual relationships or just business deals. She drained them dry—money, attention, validation—and once they had nothing left to give, she'd toss them like expired mascara.
She and Dad were married once—somehow for three whole years before she decided that "domestic life" was boring. She left. He died in a car crash a year later. And I… well, I ended up here. Living with her.
Not by choice.
I had wanted to move out. Still did. But she always said, "If you go, who'll take care of the house?" Like I was some kind of housemaid wrapped in a daughter's skin. Still, I won't lie—there was a strange convenience in this arrangement. She gave me a monthly allowance, paid for my stuff, and I didn't have to worry about rent.
Win-win, I guess… if you ignored the emotional dysfunction.
"Come out in fifteen minutes!" she added. "I'm already late!"
"Okay, fine!" I shouted back, shaking off the fog of memory and pain as I sat up in the tub.
I pulled the plug, letting the water gurgle down the drain, carrying the scent of lavender and the ache of longing with it. Toweling myself off, I slipped into a pair of soft black leggings and an oversized gray hoodie. It was my comfort wear—my shield.
Downstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached me before I even made it to the living room. I found her already seated on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine. She looked effortlessly glamorous, as always. Long lashes, a perfect blowout, red lipstick that could make a man forget his morals.
I flopped onto the other side of the couch, accepting the mug she held out for me.
"Thanks," I muttered, sipping.
"So?" I asked, eyeing her sharply. "What did you want to talk about? Or should I just brace myself for another whirlwind breakup?"
She smirked and set her own cup down on the glass coffee table.
"I'm getting married."
I nearly choked on my coffee. "You're what?"
"Married," she repeated, dragging out the word like it was the punchline to a joke.
I gawked at her. "To who?"
"My new boyfriend, of course! He proposed last night. I said yes. I mean, how could I not? The man is gorgeous. You'll melt when you see him."
My head fell back against the couch. "Mom, you can't be serious. You can't even stay in a relationship for more than fifteen days, and now you're talking about marriage?"
"Honey, don't forget—I was married to your father for three years," she said proudly.
"Three years is still a failure, Mom."
She pouted. "Whatever. This one's different. He's mature, rich, charming, and oh my God—his eyes. Like a Greek god."
I groaned.
She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a small, cream-colored envelope. "Here. Invitation. It's this weekend."
"This soon?"
"He wants it fast. Romantic, right?"
I looked at the card in disbelief. "You're giving me an invitation card to your wedding?"
Her eyes gleamed. "Well… you're not coming as my daughter."
My brow furrowed. "What?"
"His family doesn't know I have a daughter," she said breezily, fluffing her hair. "They think I'm a glamorous, single woman with a mysterious past. So, you'll attend as a guest, not my child."
My jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me?"
"Relax, you still get to wear something fabulous. I'll buy you a dress."
"I don't even know the guy!"
She grinned. "His name's Christian. Isn't that dreamy?"
I shook my head in disbelief. "You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm also getting married this weekend. So pack your sass in a clutch bag and get ready."
She stood, phone in hand, checking herself in the mirror near the hallway.
"Anyway, he's calling. We have a dress appointment today. I'll pick one for you, too."
She leaned in, kissed my cheek, and whispered, "Be nice. Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone, too."
I rolled my eyes but mumbled, "Thanks."
She waved at me on her way out, hair bouncing with each step like she was in some commercial.
I sank deeper into the couch.
My mom was a storm in stilettos—loud, flashy, chaotic. But sometimes, she did think of me. In her own twisted, backhanded way. Our relationship was a weird mix of resentment and reluctant love. I didn't trust her fully, but I didn't hate her either.
Still, this whole wedding thing felt like a car crash waiting to happen.
Once the door clicked shut, I pulled the wedding card closer and flipped it open.
Groom: Elbert Devlin
Elbert
Nice name. Hopefully, he's not a complete idiot for marrying my mother.
Or worse… hopefully, he's not someone I've met before.
Because if life really wanted to mess with me, it wouldn't hesitate to put Mr. Stranger behind that name.
And if that ever happened...
God help me.