stress test

The bedroom lay wrapped in muted afternoon light. The curtains were half-drawn, and on the pristine bedspread, the matte-black case already sat open.

"Take off your trousers and sit on the edge of the bed," Loona instructed, not turning around. "I want to see what I actually have to pack away here."

I stepped out of my jeans, slid off the boxers, and sat down on the cool mattress. The bluish-red pressure marks throbbed with a dull ache; the searing, tearing pain of the past few days had finally receded.

Loona knelt between my knees. With steady, almost clinical movements, she peeled the protective backing from the silicone strips and pressed the material firmly along the inside of the largest ring.

"Lift yourself up slightly. Slowly. If anything pinches, tell me immediately."

Her fingers guided the padded ring behind my scrotum, smoothing over the irritated skin, checking whether the silicone truly shielded the bruises. Then came the wider cylinder over the glans, ample clearance, the retaining bolt, the first notch, the small brass padlock.

*Click.*

"Right. Now I want to know whether this holds, or whether I’ll have to unlock you again in two hours because you're wincing in agony." Her voice dropped an octave, growing darker. "Stress test."

In a single, fluid motion, she pulled the sweater over her head. Beneath it, nothing but a gossamer black lace bralette. The dark silhouettes of her areolas showed through, as if the fabric were breathing along with her skin. Then came the sweatpants. The thong: two silk threads resting high on her hipbones, a triangle of lace revealing far more than it concealed.

I stared.

It wasn't merely nakedness. It was how casually, how naturally she stood there—shoulders relaxed, back lightly arched, the afternoon light catching along the inside of her thighs. My mind raced back to last night, to her kiss, to the warmth of her hand resting against my abdomen, tangled instantly with the fact that this exact same woman had just locked a steel collar around me. The contradiction made my head spin. I could have dropped to worship her. I could have turned and run. I did neither. I sat rooted to the spot, letting my gaze anchor to her frame as though looking were disobedience enough.

Blood surged forward in a rush. The flesh rose, driving hard into the steel. I dug my fingers into the duvet, bracing for the familiar, cutting agony.

It never arrived.

The cylinder offered room. The silicone absorbed the force. An armor holding firm without tearing the wounds open again. A shaky, breathless sound slipped from my lips.

Loona stepped between my knees, her thighs resting warm against mine. Cedarwood, almonds, her skin.

"Well?" she murmured, laying her palm flat over the heated cylinder. She squeezed—firm, deliberate, testing. "Does that hurt, or is the silicone merely rubbing? I want an honest answer, John, not what you think I want to hear."

"It doesn't hurt," I forced out. The metal pulsed beneath her fingers. "It holds. It… it presses, but it doesn't tear."

"Good. Then it can stay right there while you find something far more useful to do with that mouth of yours than make excuses."

She hooked a finger under the thong, sliding it to the side. No drawn-out prelude. Just that single, offhand tug—and suddenly her center was right before my face, glistening wet, her scent warm and musky, resting so close my mind short-circuited for a heartbeat.

I wasn't supposed to do this. That was the first thought that surfaced. Not after Emma, not after the bath, not after her apology. And yet she stood over me as though this were the exact price demanded for the steel sparing me today. I saw the delicate line of the lace held aside, the soft curve of her labia, the slight tremor in her lower abdomen as she drew a breath. She was so stunning it hurt. Not like an airbrushed model, not distant—tangible, warm, inches away, and I was forbidden from touching her with my hands.

"On your knees," she said, the edge in her tone carrying an almost tender weight. "You have two hours before his train arrives, and I have no desire to spend the entire evening restless just because you keep looking at me like that. So lick me. Properly. Not as if you're waiting for permission."

I slid off the edge of the mattress. The cage hung heavy and full between us, invisible to her only if she chose not to look—and she did look, briefly, that razor-thin smile gracing her lips.

Her fingers threaded into my hair, guiding my mouth forward.

The first taste was hot and slick. Purely her. Flattening my tongue, I traced slowly along the inner folds, found her clit, circled it, and heard the subtle shift in her breathing. My mind was deafening: *This is Loona. The Loona from the bathroom. The Loona who kissed me.* And running deeper, darker beneath it: *She's letting you do this, and you still don't get to come.*

"A little firmer," she murmured from above. "You know where. You've spent long enough watching how I breathe whenever you get too close."

I applied gentle suction, growing more deliberate. She began rolling her hips against my mouth in small, commanding circles. Every movement drove me with a dull thud against the silicone lining—no ripping flesh, only that burning, inescapable throb matching her rhythm. I could have laughed out of sheer helplessness. Instead, I kept working, swallowed what she offered, breathed directly against her skin.

She tasted of warmth and that distinct, dry edge I had breathed in from her pillow the night before. The thought crossed my mind that in two hours Timo would be staring at whatever dress she chose to wear, completely oblivious to where my mouth had been. The vicious intimacy of it burned sweeter than the steel.

"Stay right there," she said, her voice tightening. "Don't speed up, just don't stop. I want to come before that intercom buzzes—and you're going to finish this with your tongue, not your fingers."

I held the rhythm. Unrelenting, working the exact spot, keeping my hands resting flat against my own thighs because I didn't know whether I was permitted to touch her hips. Her thighs began to tremble. Wetness traced down my chin and throat.

"Swallow it," she whispered. "I don't have time to change again if you make a mess of the bedspread."

I swallowed, drawing her clit firmly between my lips. Loona pressed down hard against my mouth, one hand buried in my hair, the other bracing against the wardrobe, and came without a loud cry—just a long, guttural exhale, her pelvis bucking in short, sharp jolts, her thighs clamping around my head like a vise. A scalding wave broke over my tongue. I drank it in, holding perfectly still, letting her shiver out the aftershocks until the grip on my hair slowly eased.

She lifted her hips. A glistening thread parted. My face shone in the dim light. My lungs dragged in air greedily. Between my legs, the caged flesh kept up its dull, locked ache, hopeless and confined.

Loona slipped the thong back into place, smoothing the hem with two fingers as casually as if she had merely touched up her lipstick.

"Get up. Wipe your mouth before you leave a trail anywhere. Then put on the trousers—the dark ones, not the denim. I don't want anything suspicious printing through the cloth when he pulls you in for a hug."

I complied on unsteady legs. The cage rested invisible beneath the fabric—full, demanding, denied everything. Her taste lingered on my tongue like a second padlock.

She walked over to the wardrobe. With every step, the thin straps of the thong cut into her hips. I followed her like someone under a heavy trance.

"The hold-ups are in the box. Put them on me, and keep your focus. If you run a ladder through the nylon because your head is still stuck between my legs, you're putting on the second pair yourself."

Dropping to my knees, I opened the packaging and bunched the fine nylon in my hands. She rested her foot on the edge of the mattress, extending her toes. For a moment, my world narrowed down to that solitary foot—slender, immaculate, the arch still warm from standing—and whatever remained in me that was still tangled in her taste tipped into something simpler. Lowering my head, I pressed my lips to her instep, then to the tips of her toes, brief and reverent, as though it were an integral part of the dressing ritual.

Loona let out a quiet scoff above me. No mockery. Rather an abrupt surprise that tilted straight into dry amusement.

"You are impossible," she murmured, and I could hear the smile threading through her words. "You just had your mouth full, and now you're kissing my feet like you're preparing a marriage proposal. Put the stocking on, Romeo, before Timo catches us both in this pose."

A hot flush rushed to my face. I obeyed, working the sheer nylon over her toes, around her heel, and up the line of her calf. My fingertips burned against her bare skin. The silicone lace band settled snugly beneath the curve of her seat. Second leg—and before bunching the mesh, I kissed that instep too, quicker this time, almost guiltily.

"Yes, yes," she said, her voice softening as she held her foot patiently in place. "Both of them. Just so all is right with the world. Now put the stocking on for real."

In the vanity mirror, she caught me swallowing hard—and I caught what she saw: a man kneeling in the dirt, lips glistening, hands obedient, and beneath the fabric, the secret iron.

The emerald green dress came next. "The zipper. Slowly. You just demonstrated you can be precise when you want to be."

My knuckles brushed lightly along her spine, easing the slider upward millimeter by millimeter. The neckline plunged deep, trimmed with fine lace across the décolletage. The steel clamped down on surging flesh once more.

She spun around within the circle of my hands. Her thumb traced over my bottom lip, right where her taste still clung to the skin.

"Do you think Timo will like the dress?" she asked softly, an edge of genuine curiosity in her tone. "Do you think he'll spend the entire evening pretending to listen to you, while all he's really doing is staring right here?"

"He'll lose his mind," I rasped out hoarsely. "He'll try his best not to show it. And he'll stare anyway."

"Good." She smirked, her eyes flashing dark.