Page 85 of Her Wicked Knights
"Tell me about the worst moment of your life."
Logan may not have meant that he needed me to be submissive in the sexual sense, but that's where it led. Who knew that being honest, open, and vulnerable would spark a connection that neither of us could stifle?
It was a few months before we started to cross the line more than we already had that first day. But once we crossed it, there was no going back. We've been crossing it in crazier ways ever since, but this is a new low for me.
My heart is beating out of my chest, and I think I may pass out, but I don't dare move. I don't want to fail, don't want to disappoint him, don't want to lose the opportunity he's given me.
By exploring a physical connection, the two of us have come up with a strange sort of therapy. It's one he says he hasn't used on other patients, but it's one that works. It's like taking drugs... I do the thing, and then for a little while, my body seems to have reset and calmed down. And then as it starts to fade, I simply have to take another hit to keep it working. It's led to a toxic dependency, and I am capable of admitting that. I don't love Logan- he's cocky and arrogant, he thinks he's the smartest person in the room at all times, and he's got a superiority complex that would make it hard for anyone other than his mother to love him. And yet, there's a chemistry between us that's powerful, carnal, and raw. It's also mutually beneficial.
So as ridiculous as I feel, standing in his office in a pair of heels that are locked to my ankles, and nothing else... unless you count the tie he used to bind my wrists together behind my back.
I'm not sure how long I've been standing here, waiting for him to come back from his meeting with some pharmaceutical rep. This is what Logan referred to as exposure therapy. We've worked up to it in small doses to try and overcome my fear of being bound, with him tying me up just long enough to get a glass of whiskey from the tray in the corner, to go place a lunch order, to use the restroom. We're establishing trust, he explained. It's a little silly, given that I trust him. I wouldn't trust some random man in a Halloween costume tying me up again. But I can't deny the rush of euphoria that comes after all the anxiety, the fear of being caught, of him leaving me, of him taking things too far. When he comes back to me, it's like the world makes sense again. He's a drug, and I'm not ashamed of using him.
Every time I hear someone on the other side of the door, my heart seizes, panicked that Lorna will open the door and spot me standing there, waiting for him like this. Or worse, some random patient looking for Logan. After all, that's how we met... who'sto say someone won't come looking for him and instead find me here... vulnerable?
My calves are screaming from being forced onto the balls of my feet for so long, but I don't dare try to sit. Without having my arms, there's no way I'd be able to get back up without breaking an ankle. No, I wait, I endure, and I feel. I focus on the physical because it pushes all the mental out of my head and lets me escape the past, the ghosts of my old life, the family I've lost, the friends who have probably already forgotten about me. With each stunt Logan pulls, he shapes me into someone new, someone braver and bolder, someone stronger than the girl who I left behind in that small town. And with each session, I forget why I couldn't breathe when I left.
My stomach twists when the door opens, and I train my eyes on the ground, praying it's him, praying that I'm not about to be humiliated any more than I already am.
"Fuck, puppet," Logan groans, flipping the lock behind him. "You look like temptation."
I'm not sure what's tempting about it. There's nothing left to the imagination. We've gotten to know each other intimately in the months we've been doing this; he's been in every part of me, seen every part of me, put me into strange outfits and predicaments and then fucked me like he couldn't get enough.
I don't say anything, don't look up, waiting for him to approach me.
When he does, I hear the faint jingling of a chain, and it draws my attention enough to look up and see him before me, grinning appreciatively. "So serious, Marley. Are you scared?"
I'm not afraid of him. But I am afraid of what he can do to me. From the start, Logan told me he wanted me vulnerable, and that's what I've been.
"Yes." I tell him honestly.
He chuckles, stepping behind me and sinking to his knees. When his hands skim over my aching calves, I think he's going to free me from the shoes. Instead, he picks up another chain, running it beneath the locks on the heels and then wrapping it around one leg of the solid wood desk. He's fucked me on it enough times that I know it's solid... there's no way I could lift it up to escape, particularly when he does the same thing with my other leg, spreading me wide.
"Logan..." I warn, fear creeping inside of me as he stands out of my eyesight. I'm facing away from the door now, out the only window in the office, at a clear blue sky. I know there was snow on the ground when I woke up, but it seems to have been melted away now, turning the streets to slush.
"You need to feel things to heal from the past." Logan reminds me. "Things like fear..."
He bends me over the desk with a palm flat against my lower back, tracing one of my ass cheeks before delivering a little slap there that takes me by surprise. I yelp, more confused than hurt. His brand of therapeutic BDSM has been focused largely on psychological accomplishments. Even when he's restraining me, it's always a mind game. But this? Hitting me? That's new.
"Pain."
Except, it doesn't hurt. Is it supposed to?
"Desire?"
I do feel that, particularly as his hand rubs over the spot he just swatted, like he can soothe away the faint sting. A sting that spreads when he pulls his hand back and delivers another slap. This one is harder, like he read my thoughts and decided to up his ante. I tilt my hips forward, trying to get away from the impact even as he pulls his hand back again. This time, the hit is even harder, on the opposite cheek.
A gasp claws its way out of my throat, but I don't hate it. In fact, I can feel the blood rushing between my legs.
I don't keep track of how many times he hits me. I just know that by the time he steps out from behind me and crosses to the other side of the desk that I'm pressed against, I'm wishing I could press my thighs together to try and ease the throbbing ache there.
"You did so good." He praises me. "Waiting for me all that time. Tell me something, Marley?"
I lift my head to get a look at him.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his top buttons undone from when he bound me with his tie.
"Logan?" I prompt him.
