Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Pain and pleasure,” he murmurs, “separated by the thinnest of lines.”
The wheel travels lower, circling my navel, then along the sensitive skin of my hip. I’m trembling now, not from fear but from a desire so intense it’s overwhelming me.
“This tool,” he says, rolling the wheel in slow patterns across my abdomen, “allows me to map every sensitive spot on your body. To learn exactly where”—he drags it lightly across my inner thigh, making me gasp—“you respond most intensely.”
He continues his meticulous exploration, the pinwheel creating trails of sensation across my skin. When he brings it to the curve where my thigh meets my hip, I can’t suppress a moan.
“Interesting,” he murmurs, returning the wheel to the same spot, applying slightly more pressure. The sensation intensifies, making me jerk. “The body remembers. Every nerve ending I awaken becomes more responsive.”
He moves behind me again, running the wheel across my shoulders, down my spine, over the curve of my ass. Each path leaves a trail of tingling awareness in its wake, as if he’s drawing a map of my sensitivity.
“On the bed,” he commands. “On your back.”
I comply instantly, positioning myself as ordered. Cole returns to the leather case and produces what looks like leather cuffs attached to a long metal bar.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
I shake my head, though I have some idea.
“A spreader bar,” he explains. “It keeps you open for me. Available.”
He fastens the leather cuffs around my ankles, the bar between them forcing my legs apart. I’ve never felt so exposed, so completely vulnerable.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, standing back to admire his work. His gaze is possessive as it rakes over my displayed form. “Now you can’t close your legs, no matter how intense the sensations get.”
The implication of his words causes my stomach to clench. He returns to his case of implements and comes back with the Wartenberg wheel. The metal catches the dim light as he approaches.
“Now,” he says, his voice thick with desire, “we continue our exploration.”
He starts at my ankle, just above where the cuff holds me open, and slowly, methodically works his way up my calf. The pinpricks of the wheel are more intense now, as if my skin has become hypersensitive to his touch. When he reaches my inner thigh, he slows even further, making smaller patterns, working inward with agonizing precision.
“Please,” I gasp, my body straining against the spreader bar, desperate for relief.
“Please what?” he asks, pausing the wheel’s movement.
“I need more,” I whisper, not even caring how desperate I sound.
“More of this?” He presses the wheel slightly harder into the tender skin of my inner thigh, making me cry out. “Or something else?”
“You,” I manage. “I need you.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet. I’m not finished learning your body.”
He continues his torturous exploration, bringing the wheel to places that make me writhe—the crease where thigh meets body, the sensitive skin below my navel, circling but never quite touching where I need it most. By the time he reaches my breasts, I’m panting, my body slick with sweat, trembling with need.
“The most fascinating aspect of this tool,” he says, rolling it around my nipple without quite touching it, “is how it heightens sensitivity. Every place I’ve touched”—he finally grazes the wheel across my nipple, making me arch and cry out—“becomes more responsive to other stimulation.”
To demonstrate, he sets the wheel aside and lowers his mouth to the path he just traced. The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue following the same path as the wheel, but now every nerve ending is awake and screaming for more.
“See?” he murmurs against my skin. “Your body remembers.”
He returns to the leather case and brings back what looks like a thin metal rod with a rounded tip.
“And now for something different,” he says, plugging it into a socket beside the bed. “The violet wand.” He flicks a switch, and the metal tip glows with a purple light. “Electricity,” he explains. “Controlled. Precise.”
The air around us seems to crackle with tension as he approaches. He doesn’t touch me with it immediately, instead hovering it near my already sensitized skin. I can feel the static electricity making the fine hairs on my body stand on end.
“This works especially well,” he says, his voice thick with desire, “on skin that’s already been awakened by the wheel.”
He demonstrates by bringing the wand near my inner thigh, where the wheel had traced its path minutes before. The static discharge makes my muscles contract involuntarily, sending a jolt of sensation through me that’s neither pain nor pleasure but somehow both at once.
“Please,” I gasp, not even sure what I’m begging for anymore.
“Not yet,” he says, his voice strained with his own restraint. “I want you desperate for me.”
He continues his methodical exploration, using the wand to follow the paths the wheel created. The electrical current dances across my skin, making my muscles twitch and spasm, drawing sounds from me I didn’t know I could make.