"No," he agrees, returning to the bed. His palm lands with unexpected gentleness on the curve of my rear. "You weren't thinking at all. That's exactly what I wanted."
I gasp when I feel the belt land across my ass. “Why did you not want me to think, Master?”
The touch of leather against my skin sends shivers racing up my spine, not painful but a firm reminder of his control.
"When you think," he says, trailing the folded belt along the curve of my hip, "you hold back. You analyze. You second-guess." The leather whispers across my skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. "But when you surrender completely, when pleasure strips away those carefully constructed walls, I see the real you."
His free hand traces the intricate rope pattern across my back, following each twist and knot with appreciative fingers. "The woman who called out my name in that moment of complete surrender—that's who I want. Not the carefully controlled professional, not even the obedient submissive who remembers to call me Master. I want the woman who forgets everything except how I make her feel."
The belt traces a deliberate path down my spine, cool leather against flushed skin. My breath catches as it dips lower, sliding between my thighs where I'm still sensitive and slick.
"Tell me what you're feeling right now," he commands, his voice a rough caress. "No filters, no careful consideration. Just truth."
"Vulnerable," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Exposed in a way that goes beyond just being naked. The ropes make me feel like a gift you've unwrapped, something precious you're taking your time to savor."
The belt stills against my inner thigh, and I hear Aaron's sharp intake of breath. His fingers tighten on the leather as he processes my raw honesty.
"And terrified," I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Not of you, but of how much I need this. How completely I've given myself over to you. Terrified that one day it won't be enough. That you'll tire of me or I'll disappoint you." The confession leaves me feeling more exposed than the ropes or my nakedness ever could. "And exhilarated by that same fear, because risking everything with you feels worth it."
Aaron's hand stills completely. The belt slides away as he moves to kneel beside the bed, bringing his face level with mine. His eyes search my expression with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I hold his gaze.
"I will never tire of you," he says, his voice fierce with conviction. "Do you understand what you've given me? What do you continue to give me every time you surrender like this?" His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You think I could grow tired of watching you discover parts of yourself you never knew existed?"
He sets the belt aside, both hands now framing my face as I remain bound and positioned on the bed. The tenderness in his touch contrasts sharply with the rope harness holding me captive, creating a dichotomy that makes my heart race.
"From that first task, when you wore the red dress to the gala, I knew you were different," Aaron says, his thumb tracing the contour of my cheek. "Most would have ignored the anonymous note. You not only followed it but looked for the author, hungry for more."
His palm slides down to rest against my thundering pulse. "Every task since then has been carefully designed—not just for my pleasure, but to help you discover the depths of your own desires."
I turn my face into his touch, overwhelmed by his words and the vulnerability of my position. The rope harness shifts with each breath, a constant reminder of my surrender.
"Release me, please," I whisper, pressing my lips against his palm. "I need to touch you. I need to show you what this means to me."
Aaron studies my face for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. "Not yet," he says softly, but his tone carries absolute authority. "First, I want you to understand something."
His hands move to the rope harness, fingers tracing the intricate knots that hold me captive. "These bindings aren't just about control. They're about trust. Every loop, every knot represents a piece of yourself you've given to me willingly.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. "And in return, I've given you pieces of myself few have ever seen." His fingers trace a particularly intricate knot between my shoulder blades. "Each task reveals something new—not just about you, but about me. About what I need."
The confession hangs in the air between us, weighted with significance. Aaron, always so controlled and commanding, admitting his own vulnerability sends a rush of emotion through me that transcends the physical.
"What do you need?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
His eyes darken as he considers my question. "I need your complete trust," he says finally, his voice rough with emotion. "Not just your body, not just your obedience, but your absolute faith that I will never harm what you've given me." His fingers were still against the rope. "I need to be the sanctuary you run to, not from. The place where you can be utterly yourself without fear of judgment."
He moves around the bed, settling behind me where I can feel his presence but not see his face.
"I need your surrender because it allows me to give you something I've never been able to give anyone else—complete acceptance. When you fall apart for me, when you lose all pretense and control, you're showing me the most authentic version of yourself. And in those moments, I can love every broken, beautiful piece of who you are."
The word 'love' hangs between us like a bridge I'm afraid to cross. My breath catches as the full weight of his confession settles over me. Through all the tasks, all the commands, all the exquisite control—this has been about love. Not just desire or dominance, but something far deeper and more profound.
"Aaron," I breathe, his name a prayer on my lips. The professional distance, the careful Master-and-submissive roles—they all feel inadequate for this moment of raw truth.
His hands work at the rope harness with practiced efficiency, each knot loosening under his skilled fingers. As the silk falls away from my skin, I feel simultaneously freed and bereft—the physical bonds gone, but the emotional ones stronger than ever.
"Turn over," he says gently, helping me roll onto my back as circulation returns to my arms. I flex my fingers, working out the stiffness as I settle against the pillows. Aaron looms above me, still fully clothed, while I lie naked and vulnerable before him. The contrast heightens my awareness of the power dynamic between us, yet there's something different in his gaze now—a tenderness that makes my heart constrict painfully in my chest.
"You said love," I whisper, the word hanging between us like a fragile thread. "Did you mean it?"
Aaron's expression softens as he traces the rope marks still visible on my skin. "I wouldn't have said it otherwise."
The next several days are quiet at work, even though I feel Aaron’s eyes on me whenever I see him. Then, one day, my phone buzzes during one of our meetings regarding the Henderson account. I can feel Aaron’s eyes on me as I read the message under the table.
“How are you feeling after the other night? Here’s task #12, a spreading test with some possible punishment as you follow my directions. You'll want to have a towel and a wooden spoon or a similar item available. To please me most, as always, please set up your cell phone to record a video of the session and include it with your message.
You will take your clothes off and lie naked on your back on your bed or sofa, with a towel under your rear and pussy. You'll imagine I'm with you, and I have placed a spreader bar on you to hold your legs at least three feet apart at your ankles. You'll hold your legs in that position as you finger your pussy and clit, imagining it's my fingers on you doing whatever you like best, until you have an orgasm. But along the way, any time you move your feet closer together, as if there were no spreader bar, you will pause and spank your nipples with the bottom of a wooden spoon, five times on each one. You'll make the spanking hurt. When the spanking is over, you will resume fingering your pussy and clit as before. You will pause and spank your nipples five times each every time you move your feet closer together, spanking your nipples harder each time you pause, and then resume fingering yourself. Once your orgasm begins, you are to enjoy yourself and close your legs if you like.
Master”
I feel a jolt of heat rush through me as I read the message, my eyes darting up to find Aaron watching me from across the conference table. His expression remains professionally neutral, but there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken. I slip my phone back into my pocket, trying to focus on Janet's presentation about quarterly projections while my mind races with images of what awaits me later.
The meeting drags on for another forty-five minutes, during which I catch Aaron studying me three more times. Each glance feels like a physical touch, reminding me of his hands on my body, the rope patterns still faintly visible on my skin beneath my blouse. When Janet finally concludes her presentation, I gather my materials with trembling hands, acutely aware of Aaron's presence as the room empties.
"Nikki," he calls as I reach the door. "A moment?"
My colleagues file out, chatting about lunch plans and afternoon deadlines, oblivious to the electric tension crackling between us. When the door clicks shut behind the last person, Aaron approaches with that predatory grace that makes my knees weak.
"You received my message," he observes, stopping close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Yes, Master," I whisper, hyperaware of how my voice carries in the empty conference room.
"Your reaction was... visible," he says, his eyes dropping briefly to where I'm pressing my thighs together. "Tell me what you're thinking about."
My cheeks burn as I struggle to find words that won't sound completely wanton. "The spreader bar," I admit quietly. "How exposed I'll be. How difficult it will be to maintain that position while..."
"While touching yourself for my viewing pleasure?" Aaron completes my sentence, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's the point, Nikki. I want to see you struggle against your own desires."
His finger traces the edge of my collar, not quite touching my skin but close enough that I feel the heat of him. "The wooden spoon is an interesting choice, isn't it? Not quite as forgiving as my hand."
I swallow hard, imagining the sting against my sensitive nipples. "No, Master."
"And yet you'll do it," he says with absolute certainty.
"Because you need to feel the consequences of losing control." His voice drops to that intimate register that makes my stomach flutter. "The pain will remind you to keep your legs spread, to maintain that vulnerable position even when pleasure threatens to overwhelm you."
I nod, unable to trust my voice as images flood my mind—my body stretched wide, exposed, and aching, the wooden spoon delivering sharp punishment whenever I fail to maintain perfect submission. The thought should terrify me, yet heat pools between my thighs.
"When will you complete this task?" Aaron asks, his finger now tracing the line of my jaw with feather-light precision that makes me shiver.
"Tonight," I breathe, my voice barely audible. "After dinner. I'll... I'll set up the camera as you requested."
His eyes darken with satisfaction. "Good girl. I'll be expecting your video by ten." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, the touch so brief I might have imagined it. "And Nikki? I want to see you struggle. Don't make it easy on yourself."
The rest of the workday passes in a haze of distraction. I manage to complete my reports and return client calls, but my mind keeps drifting to Aaron's latest command. During lunch, Sarah notices my distraction immediately.
"You're doing that thing again," she observes, stabbing her Caesar salad with unnecessary force. "That dreamy, slightly terrified look you get when he's given you something new to think about."
I nearly choke on my soup. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." Sarah leans forward conspiratorially. "So what is it this time? Another 'imagination exercise'?"
The knowing look in her eyes tells me she remembers our conversation about the photograph and window seat perfectly. I fidget with my napkin, torn between the intimacy we've shared about my secret life and the increasingly explicit nature of Aaron's commands.
"Something like that," I murmur, unable to meet her eyes.
Sarah studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting from playful curiosity to genuine concern. "Nikki, you know I support whatever makes you happy, but... are you sure you're okay with how intense this is getting?"
Her question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you look like you're walking on a tightrope between exhilaration and terror," Sarah says gently. "Don't get me wrong—you're glowing; you seem happier than I've ever seen you. But there's also this constant tension in your shoulders, like you're carrying some beautiful, dangerous secret that could explode at any moment."
I set down my spoon; Sarah's perceptiveness was both comforting and unsettling. She sees too much, understands too well the complexity of what Aaron and I share.
"It is intense," I admit quietly. "But that's what makes it so extraordinary," I continue, meeting Sarah's concerned gaze. "The intensity isn't something happening to me—it's something I'm choosing. Every task, every command... I could say no at any time."
Sarah nods slowly, considering this. "And the fact that you don't say no—that tells you something about yourself?"
"Everything," I whisper, my fingers tracing the condensation on my water glass. "It tells me everything I never knew I needed to understand about myself."
Sarah reaches across the table, squeezing my hand briefly. "Just promise me one thing," she says, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "If it ever stops feeling like a choice—if it ever becomes something you're doing out of fear rather than desire—you'll tell me."
"I promise," I assure her, touched by her concern. "But Sarah, what we have... It's built on trust more than anything else. Every boundary, every limit is respected."
She studies my face for a moment longer before her expression softens. "I believe you. And honestly, I'm a little jealous. David hasn't looked at me the way Aaron looks at you in... well, years."
The conversation stays with me as I drive home that evening, Sarah's words echoing in my mind. The trust Aaron and I have built feels precious and fragile, something that could shatter if handled carelessly. Yet each task pushes me further into territory I never imagined exploring, and I find myself craving that edge of uncertainty as much as I fear it.
Back in my apartment, I stand before my bedroom mirror, studying my reflection as I slowly undress. The rope marks from the other night have faded, but I can still feel phantom traces of the silk against my skin. Tonight's task will leave different marks—not visible perhaps, but etched into my memory and recorded for Aaron's viewing pleasure.
I retrieve a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer, testing its weight in my palm. The smooth handle fits comfortably in my grasp, while the flat bottom promises a sharp sting against sensitive flesh. I set it on my nightstand alongside a fresh towel, then position my phone on the tripod I've begun keeping specifically for these recorded tasks.
My hands tremble slightly as I arrange pillows against the headboard, creating a backdrop that frames my body to its best advantage. The camera's unblinking eye makes me more self-conscious than Aaron's gaze ever has. There's something vulnerable about performing for this mechanical witness, knowing he'll study every reaction later with that intense focus that misses nothing.
I settle against the pillows, positioning the towel beneath me, and press record. The red light blinks to life, capturing my naked form as I arrange myself on the bed, legs spread wide as if held apart by the imaginary spreader bar.
"Good evening, Master," I say to the camera, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm ready to complete task number twelve as instructed."
I close my eyes for a moment, centering myself before beginning. When I open them again, I imagine Aaron sitting in the chair across from my bed, watching with that predatory intensity that makes my breath catch.
My fingers trail down my stomach, moving slowly toward my center as I visualize his hands guiding mine. The imaginary spreader bar keeps my legs positioned wide, ankles stretched to the edges of the bed frame. The vulnerability of the position sends heat coursing through me even before I make contact with my sensitive flesh.
"I'm imagining your hands on me," I whisper to the camera, my voice already breathy with anticipation. "The way you touch me so deliberately, like you're mapping every nerve ending for future reference."
My fingers find my center, already slick with arousal despite having barely begun. The imaginary spreader bar forces me to maintain the vulnerable position as I trace slow circles around my clit, mimicking the patient rhythm Aaron uses when he wants to drive me slowly insane with need.
"Your fingers are so much stronger than mine," I breathe, increasing the pressure slightly. "The way you curl them inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes me arch off the bed..."
I slip two fingers inside myself, curling them forward as I've learned he prefers, while my thumb continues its circling motion against my swollen clit. The dual stimulation sends sparks of pleasure radiating through my core, and my legs instinctively begin to drift closer together.
I catch myself immediately, forcing my ankles back to their wide position. "Already failing," I murmur to the camera with a rueful smile. "The punishment begins."
I reach for the wooden spoon with trembling fingers, the smooth handle cool against my palm. Positioning it above my right nipple, I take a steadying breath before delivering the first sharp tap. The sting is immediate and surprising, making me gasp as heat blooms across my breast.
"One," I count aloud, my voice catching. The second strike lands with more force, drawing a whimper from my throat. By the fifth strike, my nipple is peaking and throbbing, hypersensitive to the cool air.
I switch to my left breast, the wooden spoon feeling heavier now as I raise it. The first strike makes me arch involuntarily, my body seeking to escape the sharp sensation even as a deeper part of me craves it. The wooden spoon delivers its punishment with mechanical precision—five sharp taps that leave my nipple burning and swollen.
"That's what happens when I lose control," I whisper to the camera, setting the spoon aside with shaking hands. "When I forget to maintain the position you've commanded."
My fingers return to my center, finding myself even wetter than before. The pain has heightened every sensation, making each touch feel electric against my hypersensitive flesh. I resume the slow, deliberate circles around my clit, imagining Aaron's voice guiding my movements.
"You like that, don't you?" I imagine him saying, his tone both commanding and knowing. "The sting reminds you to obey, keeps you focused on what I want from you."
My hips begin to lift from the towel as pleasure builds, chasing the friction of my fingers. Without thinking, my legs start to drift inward again, seeking a more comfortable position as arousal overwhelms my discipline.
I force myself to stop immediately, stretching my ankles back to their wide position with a frustrated groan. "Already again," I mutter to the camera, reaching for the wooden spoon with reluctant obedience. "I can't seem to maintain control."
This time, the strikes must be harder, as Aaron specified. I position the spoon above my right nipple, already tender from the previous punishment, and deliver a sharp blow that makes me cry out. The pain is more intense now, radiating through my breast in waves that make my eyes water.
"Two," I gasp, the word torn from my throat as I deliver the second strike with even more force. My body instinctively tries to curl inward, seeking protection from the sharp sensation, but I force myself to remain spread wide for the camera's unforgiving gaze.
By the fifth strike on each breast, tears are streaming down my cheeks, my nipples burning with an intensity that makes every breath feel like fire across my skin. The wooden spoon clatters to the nightstand as my hands shake too violently to hold it steady.
"Please," I whisper to the camera, though I'm unsure if I'm begging for mercy or for Aaron's approval. "I'll be better. I'll maintain the position."
My fingers return to my slick center, finding myself impossibly wet, arousal heightened by the throbbing pain in my nipples. The contrast between sharp discomfort and building pleasure creates a complex tapestry of sensation that makes my mind swim. I force my ankles to stay wide, fighting against the natural instinct to close my legs as pleasure builds.
"I understand now," I gasp to the camera, my fingers working faster as heat pools in my lower abdomen, "why you chose this punishment. The pain... it makes me hyperaware of my body, of every movement."
My free hand rises to my breast, fingers ghosting over the tender, swollen flesh. The lightest touch sends sparks of pain-pleasure shooting through me, intensifying the growing tension between my thighs. I'm balancing on a knife's edge—the sharp sting in my nipples counterpointing the sweet pressure building at my core.
"This is what you wanted," I breathe to the camera, knowing Aaron will savor these words later. "To see me struggle against myself. My body fighting my will, my pleasure battling my discipline."
My hips begin to rock against my hand, seeking more pressure as I circle my clit with increasing urgency. The imaginary spreader bar becomes more difficult to maintain, my muscles trembling with the effort to keep my legs splayed wide. Once again, my ankles begin to drift inward, the natural response to mounting pleasure.
I catch myself with a frustrated cry, forcing my legs back to their wide position with a sharp exhale of frustration. The wooden spoon feels impossibly heavy as I lift it for the third round of punishment, my hands shaking with both arousal and dread.
"Please, Master," I whisper to the camera, my voice breaking. "I keep failing you. I can't seem to maintain control when the pleasure builds."
But there's no mercy in his recorded instructions. The spoon must fall harder this time, as commanded. I position it above my already tender right nipple and deliver a blow that makes me scream. The pain is searing now, radiating through my entire breast like liquid fire. Tears stream freely down my face as I force myself to continue, each strike harder than the last until I've completed the five on each nipple.
By the time I set the spoon down, my entire chest is flushed and throbbing, the pain so intense it borders on unbearable. Yet paradoxically, I'm more aroused than ever, my thighs slick with evidence of how this exquisite torture affects me.
"I understand now," I gasp through tears, my voice hoarse. "The pain isn't just punishment—it's focus. It anchors me to my body, makes me hyperaware of every position, every movement."
My fingers return to my center with renewed purpose, working with desperate intensity as I fight to maintain the widespread position. The pain in my nipples has transformed into a deep, throbbing heat that seems to pulse in time with my racing heart. Each beat sends waves of sensation radiating through my core, intensifying the pleasure building between my thighs.
"I won't fail again," I promise the camera, my voice ragged with determination. "I'll hold the position you commanded, no matter how difficult it becomes."
My free hand grips the sheets instead of reaching for my aching breasts, using the anchor point to help maintain my wide-legged position. The imaginary spreader bar feels almost real now, a phantom pressure against my ankles as I force them to remain at the edges of the mattress.
"I can feel you watching me," I gasp to the camera, my fingers working faster as tension coils tighter in my core. "Even through this lens, I feel your eyes on every inch of my skin, approving of my struggle, my obedience despite the difficulty."
The orgasm builds with unexpected force, pleasure crashing through me like a tidal wave. My back arches involuntarily, every muscle in my body tensing as the climax tears through me with devastating intensity. The pain in my nipples seems to amplify every sensation, creating a symphony of pleasure and discomfort that leaves me sobbing Aaron's name.
"Master!" I cry out, my voice breaking as waves of release crash over me. My legs want desperately to snap together, to curl inward and protect my oversensitive flesh, but I force them to remain spread wide until the very peak passes. Only when the most intense waves begin to subside do I finally allow my trembling legs to close, collapsing in a shuddering heap as aftershocks ripple through my sweat-slicked body.
I lie there for several minutes, catching my breath, the camera's red light a silent witness to my complete surrender. My nipples throb with each heartbeat, the skin around them reddened and tender. When I finally find the strength to reach for my phone, my hands are still shaking.
"I hope this pleased you, Master," I whisper to the camera, my voice raw. "I understand now why you chose this particular challenge—to teach me that control comes not just from pleasure, but from enduring discomfort while maintaining discipline." I reach forward and stop the recording, my body still trembling with aftershocks.
After a brief rest, I review the video, my cheeks burning as I watch myself from this new perspective—vulnerable, desperate, and completely uninhibited. The woman on the screen seems like a stranger, yet I recognize the truth in her surrender. With trembling fingers, I send the file to Aaron, adding a simple message: "Task completed as instructed, Master. I await your assessment."
I draw a bath while waiting for his response, the warm water stinging slightly against my tender nipples as I sink into the porcelain sanctuary. The heat helps ease the lingering ache, though phantom traces of the wooden spoon's discipline remain like invisible brands on my skin.
My phone buzzes from its place on the bathroom counter, and I reach for it with pruned fingers, heart hammering as I see Aaron's name on the screen.
"Exquisite," his message reads. "The way you struggled to maintain position while your body betrayed you—perfection. I particularly enjoyed watching you break down and rebuild after each punishment. There's something transcendent about watching you push through your limits for me. Your tears were as beautiful as your pleasure."
My breath catches as I read his words, the praise washing over me like a balm. I sink deeper into the warm water, my phone held carefully above the surface.
"The punishment was... intense," I type back. "My nipples are still throbbing."
"Good," comes his immediate reply. "I want you to feel the memory of your submission tomorrow. Every time your blouse brushes against your tender skin, you'll think of me."
The thought sends a shiver through me despite the warm water. Tomorrow I'll sit in meetings, speak with clients, navigate the professional world while carrying this secret tenderness beneath my clothes. A private reminder of my submission that only Aaron will recognize in my slight winces or careful movements.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" I type, suddenly craving his physical presence after this intense virtual connection.
"Lunch," he responds. "My office. Wear something that buttons down the front."
My pulse quickens at the implication. "Yes, Master. What time?"
"12:30. Don't be late. And Nikki..." The message pauses, those three dots indicating he's typing more. "Bring the wooden spoon with you."
My breath catches, imagination spinning with possibilities for what he might have planned. The mixture of anticipation and trepidation is becoming a familiar cocktail in my veins, one I find increasingly addictive.
"Yes, Master," I reply, my fingers trembling slightly against the screen.
I sleep fitfully that night, dreams filled with phantom sensations—the sting of wood against sensitive flesh, the strain of muscles forced to maintain an unnatural position, the weight of Aaron's gaze even in sleep. I wake twice, my nipples still tender enough that the brush of silk sheets makes me wince. Each sensation carries me back to the previous night's submission, to the moment when pain and pleasure blurred into something transcendent.
The morning arrives gray and drizzling, matching my nervous energy as I stand before my closet. Aaron's instruction to wear something that buttons down the front eliminates most options, leaving me with a cream silk blouse that fastens with pearl buttons from collar to hem. I pair it with a navy pencil skirt and low heels, the epitome of professional respect.
