“You like what you see?” she asks, wiggling the toys.

My throat goes dry.

Then she catwalks back to the table and climb higher up my torso, straddling my ribs instead of my hips, forcing me to look up at her.

She leans over and grabs my wrists, pulling them up above my head.

My shoulders protest but being this exposed feels more thrilling than painful.

With quick expert movements, she uses the velvet cuff to bind my wrists together, securing them to the metal rail at the head of the table.

My wedding ring presses into the vinyl as she tightens the restraint… a small, cruel reminder of the...