How Ethan Met Claire · Bound 2 · Part 1 (1/2)
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Part 3
Negotiations The arts building was nearly silent again, its long corridors carrying only the faint hum of old vents and the occasional creak of wood as the afternoon sun shifted. The photo studio at the end felt like a room suspended outside of time, its frosted glass door muting the world into a soft blur.
Ethan was already inside, rope coils neatly stacked in their crate, table cleared, cushions leaning against the wall. He wasn’t expecting play this time — he had been careful in setting expectations. Talk. Nothing more. They needed clarity first, her preferences, her fantasies. So he leaned against the long worktable, arms folded, mind drifting toward what might be, if she wanted.
The door clicked.
Claire stepped in.
Her hands were full — a wicker basket balanced on her arm, a folded cloth peeking out of the top. The faint scent of coffee followed her, fresh and rich.
Ethan blinked. “That’s… unexpected.”
She set the basket down with quiet grace, slipping off her gloves before opening the lid. Inside were plates, cups, a small thermos, and something wrapped in brown parchment. The faint, buttery scent of pastry drifted into the room.
“I thought we could make this civilized,” she said lightly. “Talk is easier with coffee.”
His mouth curved. “And you bake, apparently?”
She gave him the barest arch of a brow. “Nothing grand.”
“Grand enough,” Ethan said, watching the neat movements of her hands as she unwrapped the food. “You brought a picnic to a photo studio. That’s already memorable.”
She ignored the comment, putting the cloth on the floor as if it was a meadow, and arranging plates with deliberate precision.
Only then did he notice her dress.
Summer light fabric — pale yellow cotton, almost careless, with a scooped neckline and short sleeves. But the silhouette betrayed her. The bodice cinched brutally at the waist, flaring into a skirt that swayed just enough to hint at the structure beneath. Her posture was too straight, shoulders drawn back, her breathing fractionally shallower than natural. She had laced herself tight.
Ethan smiled, low and genuine. “You’re trying to impress me.”
Her lips quirked, the faintest smile. “Does it work?” Her gaze flicked downward — quick, precise — for a fraction of a second toward his lap. Or maybe he only imagined it.
He let the moment breathe. Then: “Yes. It works.”
They sat opposite one another, the studio transformed into something softer, a private picnic space, with rope coils stacked discreetly in the background. She knelt, he sat cross-legged. She poured coffee into cups, the steam curling between them.
For a while, they ate in companionable silence. The pastry was dense but tender, and Ethan let the taste settle before he spoke.
“So,” he said, setting down his plate. “You want to talk. About spice.”
Claire’s eyes flickered. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, spine straight. “I do. I… like the idea. I want to explore it. But…” she stopped, mouth tightening, “I don’t like the word pain. I don’t want to be that woman who wants pain.”
Ethan nodded slowly. “But you liked what I did. With my hand.”
Her cheeks warmed faintly, though her voice stayed calm. “Yes. I liked it. I still feel it, if I think about it. And the word spice feels safer. Cleaner. Hot, not ugly.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice level. “Then spice it is. But we need to know which spices you like. And which ones you don’t touch at all.”
She swallowed, eyes steady. “Go on.”
“Paddles,” Ethan said, counting off on his fingers. “A deeper hit. More thud than sting. Controlled.”
Her lips parted, a quick breath. “Yes.”
“Belts,” he continued. “Leather. The edge can sting, but the broadside spreads the impact.”
Her eyes softened. “Yes.”
“Clamps,” Ethan said, slower now. “For nipples. Or thighs. Adjustable pressure. It hurts — but it builds. It doesn’t feel like a blow. More like… constant insistence.”
She shifted, pressing her thighs together under the skirt. “Yes.”
“Blades,” Ethan said at last, watching her carefully. “Not to cut. To press. Cold. Sharp. The mind does most of the work.”
Claire’s expression closed instantly. She shook her head. “No. Not knives. Not razors. Not blood.”
Ethan exhaled, and he felt relief rush through him.
“Good,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t go there anyway. But I had to ask.”
Her brows knit faintly. “Why are you relieved?”
He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim, then back at her. “My last girlfriend… she self-harmed. Cuts. Scars. I tried to help her, but it wasn’t something I could fix. I ended it when I moved here, but honestly, I’d already realized I couldn’t live in that space. Every time she put a blade to herself, it wasn’t play. It was… destruction. And I can’t blur those lines.”
Claire’s face softened, the tension in her jaw easing. “I hope she’s okay now?”
Ethan nodded. “She got a place in therapy, last thing I heard. But that’s over a year ago now. I don’t know.”
He paused, lost in thought.
Claire waited for him to return to the present, then asked. “So blood is a hard no for you.”
“Yes,” Ethan said. “Not just no — never. I’m not interested in breaking skin, not even a scratch. Rope marks, yes. Bruises, if we’re both comfortable, yes. But blood? No. I don’t need that. I don’t want that.”
She nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me. And no, I don’t want it either.”
The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Then she tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You listed all those things — not just to see what I’d accept, but to see if I’d stop you. Didn’t you?”
Ethan smiled faintly. “You’re sharp. Yes. That’s part of it.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, voice quiet, steady, “I need to know you’ll assert yourself. That you’ll stop me if I cross a line. That you won’t just obey because you think that’s what I want. The only way this works is if you fight me where it matters. I want you to challenge me.”
Claire knelt very still, absorbing that. Her fingers tightened slightly on the handle of her cup.
“So obedience isn’t what you want,” she said carefully.
Ethan tilted his head. “I don’t want a doormat. Anyone can kneel and say yes to everything. That’s not power exchange, that’s performance. To give something, you have to own it in the first place. For you to obey because you choose to — and to defy me when you don’t. That’s how I know you’re with me, not just playing a role.”
Her eyes lingered on his, sharp and searching. Then she gave the smallest smile, lips curving without showing teeth.
“I see,” she said softly. “So you want a damsel who ties her own knots, and only lets you catch her when she wants to be caught.”
Ethan chuckled, low in his chest. “I want a damsel that squirms helplessly, because that’s what she enjoys.”
Claire shifted back a bit, corset holding her spine tall, her gaze unblinking. “Then you’d better be ready. Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”
Ethan’s smile widened slowly. “Good. I don’t want easy.”
The coffee between them had cooled, the pastry crumbs scattered neatly on their plates. Claire leaned back a bit, her spine still impossibly straight from the corset beneath her summer dress. Her arms rested lightly in her lap. Ethan watched her for a long moment before he spoke again.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “About what a scene might look like with you. Not the detail of every rope or knot. Just the outline. The shape.”
Her eyes sharpened at once. “Tell me.”
He shifted forward, elbows on his knees, voice calm but deliberate. “Picture this: you, bound to a chair or across a table. Not just casually — secured. Ankles to the legs, wrists tied so you can’t move them. Posture arranged to make you feel vulnerable. Maybe your arms pulled behind, maybe spread, maybe simply resting but locked in place. The point is, you wouldn’t be able to get up. You’d be completely caught. A damsel, displayed. While you’re like that, I’d test different implements. Paddle. Belt. My hand. And maybe something else.”
Claire’s breath caught very slightly, a fraction of a pause before she asked, voice softer now, “Something else?”
Ethan let the word hang. Then: “I wouldn’t tell you beforehand. You’d discover it when I use it. And I’d judge from your reaction whether it stays in play or not.”
Her lips parted, eyes bright. “So I wouldn’t know what’s coming.”
“You’d know you’re safe,” Ethan said evenly. “But not the texture of it. Not the sting, or the weight. That would be yours to show me, in the moment.”
Claire’s chin lifted, her throat moving as she swallowed. “I want that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Her answer was low, steady. “Judge me from my reaction. That’s the challenge. Don’t tell me, don’t warn me. If I flinch, if I moan, if I lean into it — that tells you more than a yes or no ever could.”
He studied her, the long, taut lines of her corseted torso, the way her shoulders stayed square even as excitement warmed her face. “You want to be tested.”
“Yes,” she said again, without hesitation.
The silence stretched, thick with the shift in the current. Ethan leaned back slightly, considering her.
“Repeat it back to me,” he said at last.
Claire’s brows drew together faintly. “What?”
“Through your lens. I’ve given you the outline. Now you give it back to me. What do you hear when I describe it? What matters to you in it? What disappears?”
Her lips curved not quite a smile, more the hint of one. “You want to see what I leave out. What I add.”
“Yes,” Ethan said simply.
Claire’s gaze turned inward for a beat, then she straightened further, like she was delivering something solemn.
“I see myself tied to a chair. Not just tied, but arranged. My posture fixed so I can’t slouch, can’t twist, can’t hide. Every line deliberate. I’d be on display — not for a crowd, not for strangers, but for you. Vulnerable. I’d feel that — the way your eyes would own me in that moment.”
She took a sip of coffee, her voice steady, but lower now. “Then the implements. Paddle. Belt. Clamps, perhaps.”
Ethan’s eyes sharpened. “Clamps?”
Claire’s smile widened just slightly — sly, knowing. She didn’t answer.
“You want me to judge again?” he asked quietly.
She tilted her head. “Yes.”
A pause. Then Ethan nodded, slow, deliberate. “Noted.”
She continued, her voice softer now. “What matters to me is not knowing. That you keep your hand hidden until it falls. That I can’t prepare, can’t guard against it. That my body speaks before my mind does. That you read me, not my words.”
Her eyes lifted, catching his. “That’s what I heard in your outline. That’s what excites me.”
Ethan inhaled slowly, holding her gaze. Sparks passed between them. Quieter than banter but no less sharp — the friction of two people testing where power began and ended.
“And intensity?” he asked, after a beat. “How far do you want me to take it?”
Her mouth curved, her tone almost defiant now. “Farther than I can handle.”
He arched a brow. “That’s not an answer.”
Her cheeks flushed faintly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “I want to be challenged. Past comfort. Past what I think I can take. I want to reach the point where I’d beg you to stop — but not actually say it. And know that you’d see it before I did. That you’d know when I’ve had enough.”
Ethan’s chest tightened at the way she said it — the trust in her voice, the fire under it. He let the weight of silence sit for a moment before he spoke again.
“That’s a dangerous game,” he said quietly.
“Then play it well,” she replied, just as quiet.
The room seemed to still around them, the fading sunlight falling through the skylight in pale bars.
At last, Ethan leaned forward, his voice low and certain. “Then next time, I’ll bind you to some furniture.” He smiled. “And I’ll test your appetite for spice. And you’ll prove to me — and to yourself — how far you can go.”
Claire’s lips parted just enough for the faintest intake of breath. She didn’t answer with words. She simply nodded once — deliberate, regal, like a woman accepting terms she herself had chosen.
Damsel me Days later, the promise became reality.
The studio had changed. When Ethan had written in his last message that he was “preparing the room,” Claire had imagined coils of rope stacked, maybe a cushion or two. She hadn’t expected this.
The table stood solid in the center of the space, plain wood but crafted with care, its edges sanded smooth, the lines clean, no wobble at the legs. A chair leaned nearby, equally sturdy, its frame pierced with neat eyelets along the back and seat rails. The furniture was purposeful, deliberate — built for more than just sitting.
She stepped in, low heels clicking on the floor, skirt brushing lightly against her stockings. She had dressed again in what she by now began to consider as her play dress — no corset, no gloves. Just clean lines: black bodysuit, navy skirt, crisp blouse. She could breathe, bend, stretch. Ready.
Her eyes went to the furniture immediately. “You built that?”
Ethan closed the door behind her, sliding the bolt into place. “I did.”
Claire walked closer, fingertips grazing the edge of the table. “Sturdy.”
He smiled faintly. “That was the point.”
Her gaze flicked back to him, daring. “You’ve been busy.”
“I have.” He let a beat pass, then added, “So, you wanted to be surprised and challenged?”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, lips curving. “Yes, I do. Damsel me.”
The grin that accompanied it was bright, almost mischievous — but steady.
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He stepped toward her, caught her wrists, and swept them behind her before she could react. A quick grip, leather biting her skin — cuffs. Her eyes widened as she flexed her wrists and found them held fast.
“I also made these,” he said with a small smile.
She tugged against the cuffs, testing. “Too bad I can’t see them,” she replied dryly.
“You’ll feel them soon enough.”
He guided her forward toward the table, her heels clicking on the wood floor, a nervous undertone in the sound. With one hand at her shoulder, the other at her bound wrists, he bent her forward. “Let’s continue with the challenges first. How about this?”
A rope was already fixed near the front edge. Smoothly, he clipped the cuffs to it and drew it taut, pulling her hands upwards, away from her spine until her shoulders flexed tight, her torso folding down. He kept pulling until her chest was flat on the table, arms extended far forward, her face turned sideways against the polished wood.
Claire struggled once, twice, her skirt swishing as she twisted. The rope held. There was no bypassing the edge of the table — she was pinned, spread across it, unable to move.
Then Ethan bent, his hand warm at the back of her knee. He spread her stance, guiding her left leg to the far corner, then the right. The rope slid smoothly in his hands as he bound her ankle to the leg of the table, snug and secure.
She shifted, testing — restrained, but not yet fully trapped.
But then he worked higher. At her knees. Rope circled smooth and fast, pulling them outward to meet the width of the table’s frame. Her thighs burned at the stretch, the skirt pulling tight across her hips as her legs opened wider than she would ever choose. She gasped, her shoulders jerking against the strain of her arms already fixed ahead.
By the time he tied the last knot, she was a line of tautness from shoulders to hips to thighs — everything stretched, locked, displayed.
Ethan stepped back for a moment, silent. Watching.
Claire’s breath came fast against the tabletop. She tested once more — but it was no use. The cuffs held her wrists in their forward position, the rope pinned her knees so wide her hips ached, her breasts pressed flat against the wood. Even struggling was barely possible; she could twitch, squirm, but not move.
She closed her eyes, exhaling long, riding out the panic-flash. The helplessness was total.
Ethan leaned down then, his voice soft against her ear. “You’re doing beautifully. And you look very helpless.” His breath was warm. His tone was kind. “You okay?”
There was a pause — long enough that the question mattered. Claire’s eyes stayed closed, her cheek pressed to the wood. Then she nodded once, the smallest motion she could manage.
Her voice, muffled, was quiet but clear. “Yes.”
He let the silence breathe. His hand brushed her shoulder lightly — steady, grounding. Then he whispered, still close, “Good girl.”
Her breath shuddered. She had never thought two such simple words could ripple through her this way — not belittling, not mocking, but affirming, as if she had passed some unseen threshold.
Ethan’s voice was low, steady. “Look at me.”
Claire’s lashes fluttered. She opened her eyes, turning her head just enough against the tabletop to find him.
What she saw made her breath stall.
In one smooth motion, Ethan was sliding his belt from its loops, the leather whispering free. He doubled it over, then coiled it twice around his hand. The gesture was theatrical, almost deliberate showmanship — but it wasn’t parody. It was precise. The set of his shoulders, the measured pace, the calm control in his face, the play of the muscles in his arms — all of it turned the simple act of undressing an accessory into a performance of authority.
Bound wide, her arms pulled taut, her body stretched across the table, Claire couldn’t move, couldn’t protect herself. And that was the point.
He held her gaze, belt coiled dark in his palm. She knew exactly what was about to happen.
Deliberately, he walked to the end of the table, his hand brushing the fabric of her skirt where it bunched against the ropes at her knees. With a careful flick, he flipped the skirt upward.
The reveal made him inhale.
Stayups hugged her thighs, black nylon topped with lace. Above them, the bodysuit cut sharp lines — a string-back, baring two pale, perfect buttocks. The fasteners at the crotch gaped just enough to betray her arousal. A darkened patch, damp already, glistened faintly where it pressed against the table’s wood.
Ethan let the belt dangle loose for a moment, the tip whispering across the curve of her backside. The cool touch of leather made Claire sigh, her eyes closing again. She pressed her cheek harder into the tabletop, shivering with anticipation.
Slowly, Ethan uncoiled the belt until it wrapped just once around his hand, the length hanging free. He positioned himself carefully, one palm firm at the small of her back — stabilizing, grounding her. She didn’t need it; she was already tensed across the table, locked open by ropes. But the hand said: I have you. You won’t fall.
He lifted the belt, aimed, and let it fall.
The first strike was measured, not brutal. The leather kissed across both cheeks with a sharp crack, sting blooming hot across her skin. Claire gasped, hips jolting forward against the table, the cuffs rattling as she reflexively tried to pull her arms. There was nowhere to go.
Ethan held steady, his hand still pressed to her spine, his body calm. “Breathe,” he said quietly.
She obeyed, dragging air through parted lips, her body adjusting.
The second stroke landed beside the first, slightly higher. Her hips twitched again, a muffled groan escaping her throat. The third followed, then the fourth — each one deliberate, the rhythm unhurried. He wasn’t chasing bruises. He was painting heat.
By the fifth, her skin glowed pink. By the eighth, it was mottled with heat, a deepening blush that spread evenly across her buttocks… Each impact seared at first, then blurred into a flood of warmth, the pain slipping down into something deeper, something Claire’s body leaned into even as her wrists strained uselessly at the cuffs.
Her thighs trembled, forced wide by the ropes. Her breathing came heavier, deeper, caught between gasp and moan.
Ethan paused, letting the belt rest lightly across her burning skin, dragging the leather slowly over her cheeks. He bent close, his breath hot at her ear.
“You’re glowing,” he murmured. “Do you know how beautiful you look like this?”
Claire’s reply was ragged, muffled into the wood. “Yes…” Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, her entire body suspended between the sharp ache of the belt and the dizzy relief of surrender.
Ethan smiled faintly. “Good girl.”
He straightened, coiling the belt once more in his hand, considering how much further to take her — and knowing he had all night to decide.
“Let’s see what you like,” Ethan whispered into her ear, his voice steady, almost calm.
The belt slipped from his fingers, coiling onto the table’s edge, and he brought out a paddle — heavy, thick, broad-faced, uncompromising. He let her feel the wood brush across her heated skin before lifting it away.
The first strike landed with a deep thud. Not the stinging crack of leather, but a wave that pushed through her flesh and sank into her muscles. Claire gasped, her body jerking against the ropes. Not in protest, not in rejection, but in shock at the depth of it.
Ethan waited. Watched her breathe. Counted a slow five before lifting the paddle again.
The second blow echoed off the walls, reverberating through her bound body. She exhaled hard, a noise closer to a moan than a cry. The third followed, then the fourth — never rushed, always time between, letting the force spread, settle, bloom into her.
Her hips pressed into the table now, no longer fighting. She was gone, eyes closed, lips parted, every muscle slackening into the inevitability of it. Deep in subspace-that drifting surrender where her body didn’t resist, only absorbed.
Ethan slowed, laid the paddle aside. His palm rested at her lower back, steady, anchoring her again.
Then he reached for something new.
The buggy whip. A meter of thin leather, fiberglass core hidden within. Flexible, but sharp. Sting replacing the thud.
He held her steady with one hand, more to mark his aim than restrain her, though she could hardly move at all. Then he drew the whip back, flicked his wrist, and the lash landed across both cheeks.
Claire inhaled sharply, her whole body jolting against the bonds. The sting burned fast and deep, her wrists pulling uselessly at the cuffs, her thighs quivering wide in the ropes.
Ethan leaned down, close enough to hear her ragged breathing, close enough to smell her arousal — hot, sharp, flooding the air. She was wet, the bodysuit clinging dark between her thighs.
The whip cracked again. Another stripe. Her moan broke loose, high and raw, her knees straining against the ties.
A pause. He watched her body shake, chest pressed flat to the table, hips pinned wide. A third stroke followed — deliberate, controlled. Precise. Intentional. A mark of possession.
Her head turned against the wood, lips parted, breath spilling fast.
Ethan set the whip aside and placed his hand on her back, keeping her steady as she slipped deeper. Her body trembled, muscles loose, surrender flooding every line of her. She didn’t resist the ropes now — she leaned into them, letting them hold her.
Her hips shifted against the edge of the table, grinding helplessly for more. The movement was small, desperate, but constant. Her moan thickened, low in her throat, her body aching to be touched.
Ethan’s palm slid over the heat of her marked skin, slow and deliberate. Across the curve of her ass, down to the soft inside of her thigh.
Claire whimpered, pushing forward as much as the bonds allowed. “Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered, the words spilling without thought.
His hand traveled upward, so slowly she could barely stand it, until his fingers found the brass studs at the crotch of her bodysuit. He paused there, just feeling the tension in her body, the tiny helpless movements as she tried to meet his touch.
Then, with a flick, the first stud opened.
She gasped, a high, sharp sound, her body arching as though she could wiggle herself into his hand. The cuffed wrists pulled uselessly at the rope, her whole body straining forward, begging without words.
The second stud snapped free. Claire lifted her hips as far as the ropes allowed, an unconscious offering, opening herself. Her thighs quivered at the strain, her breath broken, uneven.
Then the last closure came undone, the strip of fabric falling away. The bodysuit was no longer a barrier.
She groaned softly, her hips circling in the smallest, most futile arcs against the table — searching, pleading, presenting herself as much as her bonds would allow.
Ethan’s hand slipped lower, fingers sliding through the damp heat of her folds. She was already slick, wet enough that it coated him instantly.
Her moan turned guttural, her head pressing hard into the table.
He traced along her slowly, deliberately — not plunging, not rushing — just caressing, exploring, spreading her open with his touch. Each motion coaxed another whimper, another shiver, another frantic attempt at motion that the ropes denied.
Bound wide, ass glowing from whip and paddle, body trembling with need, Claire had no words left — only broken moans that rose and fell with every careful stroke of his hand.
And Ethan, calm and steady, let her have it—not all at once, but slowly, intimately, letting her sink deeper into the helpless bliss of surrender.
Ethan’s fingers traced her folds, slow, deliberate, drawing soft whimpers from Claire’s lips. She tried to push down, tried to press herself against him, but the ropes held her wide and flat. The futility only wound her tighter.
Her hips twisted in tiny circles, searching for more contact. “Please…” she whispered, voice muffled into the table. “Please, Ethan…”
He pressed two fingers gently inside her.
Her whole body shuddered. Her wrists jerked against the cuffs, her knees pulled against the ropes, but nothing gave. She was fixed, bound wide and open, and he was inside her.
She moaned low and long, the sound vibrating through the wood beneath her cheek.
Ethan’s other hand stayed firm at the small of her back, keeping her steady, reminding her she was held. He moved his fingers slowly at first — exploring her, stroking against the slick heat, learning the way her body clenched around him.
Every movement made her moan. Not words now, just raw, aching sound.
He curved his fingers, pressing up, finding the spot that made her buck helplessly against the ropes. Her thighs trembled, her hips lifting as much as the bindings allowed, a futile offering of her whole body.
“Yes — oh god — yes,” Claire gasped, forehead pressed hard to the table.
He worked her rhythmically, steady pressure inside, thumb circling her clit with maddening care. Her body shook, her breath ragged, her whimpers breaking into cries.
The ropes made sure she couldn’t chase the sensation — couldn’t grind harder or move faster. She had to take it as he gave it, at his pace, with no escape.
Her eyes squeezed shut, her whole body straining into the bonds. “I — Ethan-I’m —”
The words cut off in a strangled cry as the orgasm tore through her.
She bucked once, twice, as far as the ropes allowed, her body clenching around his fingers, her cries echoing in the studio. The climax shook her, wave after wave, until she sagged into the table, every muscle trembling.
Ethan stayed steady through it, fingers slowing, easing her down gently. His hand never left her back, grounding her as her breath finally began to steady.
When he slipped his fingers free, she moaned softly, almost a protest, her body still humming. He smoothed a hand over her hip, her ass, her thigh — soothing where he’d struck, caressing where he’d claimed.
“You did beautifully,” he murmured, low and certain, close to her ear.
Claire’s lips parted, her cheek still pressed to the table, eyes closed. “I… I can’t move,” she whispered, dazed, as though she had just realized.
Ethan smiled faintly. “That’s the point.”
And she shivered again, caught between exhaustion and bliss.
Ethan didn’t move her right away. He stayed close, one hand at her back, the other smoothing slowly over her reddened skin, whispering into her ear.
“You’re beautiful like this. So helpless. So open. Can you feel what you’ve become?”
Claire moaned softly in answer, her body shifting against the table in tiny, futile motions. She wasn’t finished — he could hear it in her breath, see it in the way her hips still tried to grind, uselessly, against the wood.
He let her drift, savor, then slowly began to ease her. First the ropes at her knees, untying carefully, releasing the harshest stretch. She gasped at the relief, legs trembling as blood rushed back into her muscles. Her thighs closed slightly, but only slightly — her ankles were still lashed wide to the table legs.
How Ethan Met Claire · Bound 2 · Part 1 (1/2)
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