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She’d been there for hours, it seemed. Lying on her back, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles secured to bed posts, blindfolded and isolated.

She could hear him rustling around – initially, she’d though he had tied her up and left, but he was there, he would never put her in danger that way.

She could smell the musty odor of him – aftershave splashed on hurriedly before the sun crawled above the horizon, the sweat and must of a day spent pent up in an office, a faint hint of expensive Scotch. She loved his smell.

Lightly, she felt his return to her – to his attention of her, and to his delicious torture of her.

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