Then a thought crossed her mind and she got up from the bed with the fluidity of a shadow that detaches from the wall, without a sound, without a useless gesture, it slipped between her legs. The black latex adhered to her like a second skin, shiny, taut, perfect, every curve of her body reflected like an art object just extracted from a window.

Then her mouth found his body before he opened his eyes. The mouth enveloped him not as a desire, but as a ritual. As if every movement had been programmed, every pressure calibrated, every rubbing a silent command. A moan escaped him, low, involuntary, like a sound that no longer knew it belonged to him.

She listened to him.

He tasted it.

He made him grow.

With his tongue he drew precise lines, with his teeth barely touching him, like an artist sculpting marble. His hands caressed his hips, thighs, belly, not to excite him, but to recognize him, as if every inch of his skin was a territory he had already conquered... and now he was simply claiming. He gasped, his fingers closed on the sheet, the body bent over and then with a broken moan, almost desperate ... it melted. She let go of him, approached his face and kissed him. with passion, with possession, with a mouth that did not try to be soft, but to melt.

His tongue entered his mouth like an invader who is allowed to stay. He couldn't resist, he couldn't, he didn't want to. She squeezed him, drew him to her, and with a slow, sensual, almost theatrical movement, straddled him. The latex stuck to his skin, a second body, a shared soul. She didn't move right away, she looked into his eyes now open, clouded, full of something she no longer recognized. "You're mine," she whispered, in a voice that was no longer hers.

And he without words, without resistance, without questions followed her movements in a dance full of passion and lust, until the world was reduced to that breath, to that contact, to that latex that tightened around them like an embrace with no way out. It was at that moment, when his body was softer, more open, emptier of all defenses... When his eyes were half-closed, his pupils dilated by the pleasure that had no longer a name. When his breathing had become deep, slow, almost... inert.

She felt it, like a rope breaking, and she knew... She knew she would never have a better time. Without a sound, without a look, she slipped away from him with a light, elegant movement, like a dancer leaving the stage to go backstage. She looked at him again, one last moment, then got up, went to the bedside table, took his helmet, held it in his hands as one holds a precious relic and brought it close to his face. He opened his eyes for a moment and in that moment, he was still there. Fear haunts him,

"No... don't... don't..."

And when the joint closed with a dull, moist click, like a mouth closing on a final kiss, he tried to move but the body did not obey. His hands rose trembling as if they wanted to push him away, but they stopped to in mid-air. He saw the spiral inside the helmet, black, slow, deep as an eye rotating in the dark. She lowered herself and with cold, confident, experienced hands, she took his member back and caressed it slowly, as if she were warming it for future use. Then she used her mouth. Her tongue drew moist lines, from the base to the glans, in circles that were not pleasure, but ritual. Her teeth barely touched him as a sign of ownership. Her lips closed around him, not to bring him to climax, but to keep him alive, to keep him ready. And as the spiral swirled inside him, she sucked on him. Calmly, precisely, slowly that was a form of gentle torture.

Then, with a slow movement, she reached out on the bedside table, opened the drawer and took the jar of oil, opened it and poured a walnut on her fingers. She slipped it between her thighs and gently between her buttocks. The oil spread, shiny, cold, like a spell. Then she took the plug, the one he had once inserted into her with trembling hands and eyes full of desire. The one she had loved, because she felt her body responding to her control. She licked it, lubricated it, brought it close to his anus and inserted it. She entered without resistance, without noise, her blow greeted him with the precision of someone who knows exactly where to go. He didn't moan, he didn't wriggle, he accepted it as if it had always been his.

The spiral continued to spin and pleasure was no longer an emotion, it was a need. An insatiable hunger that did not subside with orgasm because there was no longer an "end", there was only a continuum. Every contraction of his anus around the plug was not a reflex, it was an invocation. And he felt his mind screaming.

"This is not you, this is not real, you can't let go, you can't."

But his flesh didn't listen to her, his flesh remembered. He remembered the first plug she had inserted into him, that night when she had begged him to do it, with her voice begging, her heart beating with fear... and desire. And now? Now there was no more fear. The plug went in slowly, with surgical precision, as if it were taking him back to a place where he had been before, before he was born, before he learned to say "no". And when he came out... he moaned.

And when he came in again, deeper, warmer, more alive, his body arched on its own, without him deciding to. His thighs tightened around the plug, as if he wanted to hold it, as if he loved it, as if he wanted it. His mind still screamed "You are losing yourself." but his body responded with a moan that no longer had a human voice.

"No... no... I can't..."

And then with a tremor that crossed his spine he whispered: "... again." She heard that faint whisper and her passion mounted. It was a fire that flared up. Suddenly, she felt a warmth that went through her belly, her thighs, her heart. The latex adhered even more to her skin, as if her body also responded to his need. At which she bent down, her lips brushed against his ear, moist, warm, full of power.

"What?" he whispered, in a voice that wasn't sweet, it wasn't cruel. He gasped, his body tensed.

"MORE," he groaned, in a tone that was a plea. "GIVE ME MORE."

She grinned with satisfaction, like someone who has waited a long time to hear those words.

"Tell me you're my slave," he commanded, his voice just a little lower, a little darker.

He hesitated, he didn't want to, he couldn't, but the words came out spontaneously, with a mixture of shame, relief, and a pleasure so deep that it made his eyes water.

"I'm... your slave," he gasped.

She stood up and with a fluid movement, like a predator who has decided to grant the prize. She went to the dresser, took the strap-on, and put it on without haste. The straps tightened around her hips, like a second skin that gave her the power to penetrate, to command, to complete. She came back to him, knelt between his legs and with a firm hand, took the plug, and slid it out with a quick movement. He moaned, a high-pitched, desperate sound, because the emptiness was too big, too sudden.

But it lasted only an instant, because immediately afterwards she impaled herself on him with a single push, deep, calm, inevitable. She welcomed him into her while she felt him open up, she felt him welcome, not with resistance but with devotion. And as he penetrated him and rode him at the same time, the latex that creaked, with its breath becoming rhythm, with the helmet that continued to pulsate inside his head, took his face in his hands, looked at him and whispered to him:

"Now I'm going to give you the pleasure you deserve,"

and he... he could do nothing but welcome him. His body contracted around her, his fingers clung to the sheets, his moans became a wordless song, a hymn to his mistress, to the helmet, to the emptiness that was filling him with a pleasure that no longer had a name.

Because it was no longer sex, it was no longer pleasure, it was fusion. And she... She rode him, until she felt him tremble, until she felt him break, until his moan became silence. And he, inside the helmet, was lost in a liquid, pulsating light that came from the spiral and poured into his brain like a river of electric honey. The sweet, cold, intoxicating hypnotic gas flowed through his lungs, capillaries, synapses, melting every thought, every resistance, every fragment of himself that still dared to call itself "I".

There was no more confusion, there was only obedience and the voice... the voice did not come from outside, it came from within, from every fiber of his body, from every beat of his heart, from every pant that came out of his lips.

Obey, Submit, Slave. Three words, three orders, three beatitudes.

And with every lunge of her, with every slip of her strap-on inside him, those words dug deeper, like golden nails in a sacred temple. He groaned, not for pain, not for pleasure, but for revelation. Because in that pure, all-encompassing, endless ecstasy he understood. He had never been free, he had never been whole, he had been just a shell, waiting to be filled by his voice, by his touch, by his will. And now he was, completely. His body was no longer his, it was a toy, an object, shiny, warm, ready to be used.

And she used him, all night long she touched him, penetrated him, squeezed him, kissed him, watched him pant, made him tremble, made him cry with pleasure, made him laugh without sound, made him call his name like a prayer; and inside the helmet, the spiral kept turning, the voice whispering:

Obey, Submit, Slave.