Velvet shadows drape the room, lit only by the warm flicker of a dozen golden candles.

You’re already bound—silken ropes crossing your skin in neat, intricate patterns that hold you perfectly still against the chair. Every knot deliberate, every pull of rope precise, like art laid across your body.

Mel sits nearby, legs crossed, a crystal glass of wine resting easily in her hand. Her golden eyes wander over the weave of the bindings rather than your face, as though she’s studying a painting rather than the flushed woman sitting at its center.

“Fascinating,” she murmurs, swirling the wine absently. Like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. “How something so simple, a strand of rope, can command so much.” Her tone is rich, silky-smooth, tinged with indulgent amusement. “It transforms. It elevates. Like marble in the hands of a sculptor.”

Finally, she glances up at you, lips curved in the faintest smile.

“And you wear it beautifully, my dear.”