Page 32 of One More Gift

I wish I knew him well enough to read his mind right now.

“Get her on the table,” he says to me, gripping her elbow and hauling her out of her chair.

Fuck yes.

Saskia took charge yesterday. I led the way the night before, but now is Henry’s moment to shine. And I, for one, can’t wait to see what he’s made of.

“No, no, no!” she squeals in protest, but still hopping up to sit on the edge. “You’ll squash my paper chains.”

Henry surprises me by sweeping them to the floor, but then he pauses, picks them up, and waves a string of them in her face.

“How do these work?”

“You loop the strips through each other and close them with a sticky strip.”

“Think we could restrain her with these?” he asks me, a wide grin spread across his face.

Saskia bursts out laughing. “Wow, is that the best you two can come up with?”

“Lie down and put your arms above your head.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly serious, sweetheart. On your back. Now.”

Saskia pulls her robe tight around her again, but it’s useless, and it falls open as soon as she lies back. I watch as Henry fastens a chain around one wrist, then the other, before picking up the strands she’s already made and connecting those too.

“Are you cold?” Henry asks, his face close to hers.

“A little.”

“Your nipples look like they could cut glass.” He flicks one with the tip of his finger and she gasps at the sensation while he turns his attention back to me. “Chain her ankles.”

From the foot of the table, I nudge her legs apart and find the narrow strip between her legs damp, fabric plastered to her pussy.

“You’re soaked, angel. What’s that all about?”

“Can you blame me?” she laughs, wiggling to find a comfortable position while I wrap another paper chain strip around her slender ankle.

I may be an artist, but my medium is paint and my work is expansive, I don’t fuck around with fiddly little things like paper chains.

It takes a little while to fasten them all in place, but soon her wrists and ankles are chained to decorations that trail off the edges and are secured tightly to each table leg.

“This underwear was an excellent choice,” I tell Henry, who joins me at the foot of the table and slaps me on the back.

“Thanks, mate. Appreciate that.”

He acts like I've complimented him on his own attire, dark jeans and a tight fitting top he’s pushed up at the sleeves.

We take a moment to admire our handiwork. Bound to the table, our plaything is exactly where we want her. Saskia is a heavenly vision, her long, silky hair spilling over her shoulders. There’s a reason I’ve always called her my angel.

“What do we do now?” I ask him.

“Now we watch Die Hard.”

“What?” I scoff.

Is this man crazy?