I am sitting in the armchair, opposite you, reading quietly to myself. When you wake up, you are tied to the bed: in a sitting position, so I can look directly into your eyes; arms above your shoulders and restrained; legs spread open, tied at the ankles.

I have moved the chair close to the bed, using it as an ottoman to rest my own feet and legs. While you remain naked (and vulnerable), I have put on a pair of shorts and my favorite, slightly faded golf shirt. When I move, my bare legs sometimes touch yours: the soles of your feet, your calves, your thighs. My toe grazes your inner thigh and I notice the moist heat.

I look up from my reading when I sense you stir. I smile; you look a bit unsteady, uncertain of what to expect next. You certainly have no idea what I expect from you: and you realize it’s irrelevant, because you are in no position to argue and I will have what I want, whatever it is.

I pencil a few more notes, then shuffle the papers: clearly I have been working, and now that you are awake I must turn my attention back to you. Something — a look — crosses my face that you can’t decipher: annoyance, you wonder, that you stirred and interrupted me?

I sit back in the chair and look you in the eye; my gaze is discomfiting and you look away, and as you do you see clear displeasure on my face. I turn back to the papers in my lap, and lift them to a more comfortable reading distance. I begin reading again, this time aloud. Stories. Descriptions. Vignettes. Scenes we both know and love; and some new ones, too, as yet undiscovered. I tease you with my toe; your mind soars, racing, straining to be one step ahead of me for a change, this time, to see my own horizon. But not this time: and you relax a bit.

I see your mouth change shape and move my foot, using it instead to tease and torment the rest of your leg, and continue reading. My voice is soft but sure: it commands you, by its words as much as its tone, to listen and attend carefully. Even unbound you would be almost transfixed; but bound is much more fun.

My toes, by their proximity to your sex, are becoming more than a little damp. Because you are bound at the wrists and ankles only, you are free to move your hips and you do, trying desperately to rub against my foot: the endless parade of my writings, the sound of my voice, are stirring you into a frenzy: it’s as if you haven’t come in days, and desperately need release. But it has only been a few short hours.

I stick my toe in, savoring the moment and watching your reaction: a gasp, and then that recognizable frisson of pleasure: I know this, because I know you. Your face relaxes as your mouth opens, shifts more. You grind against my toe and I decide, against all principle, to let you have your orgasm. Later, you will show your gratitude; for now, it is enough for me to watch you, my dark eyes taking in every movement, every muscle, every nuance of your being, while you find such pleasure in my words.