She hadn’t been back in his study since the night she let herself cry in his arms.
Now, days later, the same room greeted her with stillness—and with him, waiting by the fireplace, sleeves rolled, eyes unreadable.
“Close the door, Elena,” Lucien said quietly, not looking at her.
She did. Slowly. The click of the latch sounded final. She stood for a moment, unsure, the weight of their last session hanging between them like fog.
“You came back.”
“I didn’t know if I should.”
“But you did.”
She nodded. That was enough.
He approached her without hurry, his footsteps deliberate on the wooden floor. She noticed the swing already set up behind him—smooth, worn leather straps suspended from the ceiling beams, gently swaying.
He gestured toward it with nothing but a glance.
“You remember how this feels?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then undress. You’ll begin there.”
Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse, folding each piece of clothing with care, not from modesty but reverence. She stepped into place. He adjusted the straps around her hips and shoulders with the same tenderness he used to correct her essays.
As the bondage swing lifted her feet off the ground, she exhaled slowly—letting the familiar tension pull her open, stretch her still, make her wait. The ropes groaned faintly as he moved around her, checking every knot, every angle of her body. Controlled. Observed.
Then came the bondage hood. Smooth leather, dark and enclosing. He slid it over her head, buckling it gently beneath her chin. It muffled the world, dimmed it to breath and pressure and presence.
She inhaled sharply through parted lips, and he was already there.
“Focus on your breathing,” he murmured, his voice low against her ear. “Nothing else. Just that.”
It was a lesson in close breathing, each inhale slowed by leather, by restraint, by trust. Her lungs obeyed him more easily than her thoughts ever had.
And in the silence, in the suspended darkness, she felt it again—not just the arousal, but the ache. The need not to be touched, but to be known. To be punished. To be forgiven.
Lucien didn’t say much that night. He didn’t have to. Every movement was a sentence, every pause a paragraph, and every sharp correction was a word she’d been craving to read between his lines.
When the hood finally came off, her eyes fluttered open. He held her face steady, his thumb brushing just below her lower lip. She wanted to speak—but he shook his head gently.
“You’re not done,” he said. “Forgiveness takes time.”
And she understood.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzyFCQ0pllN
Every punishment was a step toward forgiveness—and him.
