Chapter 1. You Always Want to Apologize

She arrived nine minutes early.

Sat closer to the wall.

Fingers — interlaced on her knees. Lips — pressed together.

Shirt buttoned up to the neck. Skirt — below the knee.

No perfume. Just soap.

A woman trying not to be in the way.

To anyone. Even to herself.

I watched her from the hall.

She didn't know I was already here.

But I knew.

She is mine.

I approached.

She flinched, but raised her eyes.

— Hello, — I said.

— Hello…

— You're trembling.

— No… I mean yes.

I sat down next to her. Close.

She tensed up.

I didn't touch her.

I just watched.

— You always

want to apologize, — I said. — For your gaze. For your breath. For your body.

She froze.

Inside — a scream. Outside — polite silence.

I leaned closer. Breathed on her neck.

— Look at me.

She looked. Eyes — moist.

Knees — pressed together.

Cheeks — burning.

— Now you will take off your panties. Here. Under the table. Without looking at me.

Put them in your bag.

Then you will sit. Silently. Legs together. Back straight.

You will know that you are naked.

And I will know.

Only us.

She swallowed.

Raised her hands. The hem of her skirt trembled slightly.

Tights — down. Slowly.

Fingers were shaking.

She placed the fabric in her bag as if hiding a crime.

But in her eyes — blissful horror.

— You're doing well, — I said. — Now just sit.

Wet. Aroused.

In plain sight — but only for me.

She nodded.

Quietly.

The pulse on her neck beat like a drum in the dark.

I leaned right up to her ear.

— You will leave in thirty minutes. Not earlier.

You will come home.

You will undress.

You will open Telegram.

There will be my voice message.

And only when I say "yes" — will you touch yourself.

I stood up and left.

She sat.

People ate. Chatted. Looked at their phones.

And she burned.

Naked.

Under her skirt. Under her skin.

Under my gaze, which stayed with her.

She came home.

Took everything off.

Sat on the floor.

Opened the message.

My voice:

Right hand — on your chest. Left — between your legs.

Stroke. Don't rush.

I am nearby.

You are mine. Only now.

Come for me. Slowly. Deeply. Completely.

She moaned.

Rubbed.

Bent.

Whispered: "yes… please… yes…"

And came.

Not like a girl who is afraid.

But like a woman who surrenders.

—

This story is from the upcoming book "The Psychology of BDSM".

Author — Avi Hokhma

The next chapter — soon. Remember this name. It will be inside you longer than you think.