Chapter 4: The Office Humiliation
The morning light that filtered through Selena’s office blinds did nothing to warm the space. It fell in pale, sickly stripes across the leather recliner, catching the dust motes that drifted through the air like tiny, suspended ghosts. Brandon stood in the doorway, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his jaw set so tight he could feel the ache radiating into his temples. Three days. Three days since that night in her apartment, and he still couldn’t shake the phantom sensation of her voice curling through his skull, the echo of his own giggling, air-headed laughter bouncing off the inside of his brain.
He had come to end this. To demand she undo whatever poison she had dripped into his mind.
Selena sat behind her desk, fingers steepled, her platinum ponytail catching the amber glow of the single lamp. She didn’t look up when he entered. She simply continued reading a leather-bound journal, turning a page with deliberate, infuriating calm.
“I want you to fix it,” Brandon said, his voice thick with barely contained rage. “Whatever the hell you did to me. Undo it. Now.”
A soft, musical laugh escaped her lips. She closed the journal and finally raised her ice-blue eyes to meet his. “Fix it? Darling, there’s nothing broken.” She rose from her chair, her black dress whispering against her thighs as she moved around the desk. “You came to me, remember? You walked into my space and demanded I help you. The question is—are you ready to do what it takes?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he spat. “Just make this shit go away.”
“Oh, I know you will.” Her smile was slow, predatory. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the jasmine and burnt sugar that clung to her skin. “But here’s the thing, Brandon. The trigger isn’t something I can simply delete. It’s woven into the fabric of your subconscious now. To remove it, I have to go deeper than before. I have to reach the very core of who you are and rewire the connections. And that requires your complete, unquestioning submission.”
His stomach dropped. He could feel the trap closing around him, the walls of her office shrinking, the air growing thick and heavy.
“I won’t—” he started, but she cut him off with a raised finger.
“No bargaining. No conditions. You sit in that chair, you let me work, and you trust me. Completely.” She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen pinned beneath glass. “Otherwise, you can walk out that door right now and live with the consequences. You’ll be at work, or at the gym, or on a date, and that trigger will fire at the most inconvenient moment. And I won’t be there to help you.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Brandon’s mind flashed to the horror of that night—the giggling, the doe-eyed vacancy, the way his own hands had betrayed him, stroking and teasing as if they belonged to someone else. He couldn’t live like that. He couldn’t risk it happening again, unpredictable and uncontrollable.
“Fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Fine. What do I have to do?”
Selena’s smile widened, a cat who had just watched the canary walk into its mouth. She gestured to the recliner. “Sit down, Brandon. Make yourself comfortable. We’re going to start with a simple induction, and then we’ll see just how deep we need to go.”
He moved to the chair, his legs feeling like lead. The leather was cool against his back, familiar and yet foreign. He had sat in this chair before, felt it swallow him whole while she picked apart his mind. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white.
“Relax,” she murmured, her voice lowering into that honeyed, hypnotic register that made his skin prickle. “Close your eyes, Brandon. Take a deep breath. Let the tension drain from your shoulders.”
He hated how easily his body obeyed. The breath slid out of him, long and slow, and he felt the muscles in his neck begin to unclench. Her voice wrapped around him, silk and smoke, coaxing, soothing, pulling him down.
“Good boy. Such a good boy. You’re safe here. Nothing can hurt you. Just let go, Brandon. Let go of all that anger, all that resistance. There’s nothing left to fight. You’re floating, drifting, sinking deeper and deeper into that warm, dark place where everything is easy.”
He felt himself spiraling down, the edges of his consciousness blurring. He tried to cling to the anger, to the fear, but they slipped through his fingers like water. Her voice was the only anchor, the only reality.
“Now, Brandon,” she said, her tone shifting, sharper. “Listen to me very carefully. The trigger we placed before is still active. Bimbo mode. Every time I use that phrase, you become the sweet, empty-headed doll I created. But now we’re going to add a new layer. A new trigger. One that will give me even more control.”
Some distant part of him screamed in protest, but it was muffled, distant, like a voice at the bottom of a well.
“The word is Showtime,” she continued, and she punctuated it with a snap of her fingers. The sound echoed through his mind like a gunshot. “When you hear Showtime, you will drop into Bimbo mode instantly. No hesitation. No resistance. But this time, you will be more suggestible than ever. You will do whatever I say, whatever I ask, with a smile and a giggle. You will believe it’s the most natural thing in the world. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he breathed, his voice soft, pliant.
“Good boy.” She reached out and stroked his cheek, her fingers cool against his skin. “Now, when you open your eyes, you will feel refreshed, relaxed, alert. You will remember nothing of this conversation. You will simply be here, in my office, ready to continue your session. Understood?”
“Yes, Selena.”
“Open your eyes.”
His lids fluttered open. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, then straightened in the chair. Selena was standing in front of him, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips.
“Welcome back,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess,” he said, frowning. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened after he sat down. Just a vague sense of warmth and floating. “Did you do it? Did you fix the trigger?”
“Almost,” she said, her smile widening. “But there’s one more step. I need to make sure the new programming has taken root. And for that, I need you to trust me a little longer.”
She moved to a cabinet against the wall and pulled out a hanger. Something pink and frilly hung from it, and Brandon’s blood ran cold as he recognized the shape.
“What the fuck is that?” he demanded, his voice climbing.
“This,” she said, holding up the skimpy maid outfit—a tiny satin dress with a white apron, fishnet stockings, and a feather duster, “is the final piece of your therapy. You’re going to put it on, and you’re going to perform a few tasks for me. It’s the last step in freeing you from the trigger.”
“No. Absolutely not.” He tried to rise from the chair, but his body felt heavy, sluggish, as if she had poured cement into his veins.
“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dropping back into that hypnotic purr. “Not until this is done. Now, let’s make this easy for both of us, shall we?” She snapped her fingers. “Showtime.”
The word hit him like a freight train. All resistance crumbled. His posture softened, his shoulders slumping into a feminine curve. His jaw went slack, and his eyes glazed over, unfocused, dreamy. A giggle bubbled up from his throat, high and light, completely foreign.
“Oh my God,” he said, his voice now a breathy, girlish squeal. “What am I wearing? This is so cute!”
Selena’s grin was a blade. “Put it on, sweetheart. Let’s see how pretty you look.”
Brandon—or whatever he was now—clapped his hands together, delighted, and practically bounced out of the chair. He shimmied out of his jeans and t-shirt without a moment’s hesitation, wiggling his hips as he tugged the tiny dress over his head. The satin clung to his muscular frame, absurd and humiliating, but he didn’t seem to notice. He twirled, letting the skirt flare, and giggled again.
“Do you like it?” he asked, fluttering his eyelashes. “I feel so pretty!”
“Beautiful,” Selena said, her voice laced with satisfaction. She handed him the feather duster. “Now, I need you to clean my office. On your hands and knees, sweetheart. And make sure you wiggle that ass for me while you work.”
He dropped to the floor with a happy sigh, the duster clutched in his hand. He started crawling across the floor, his hips swaying from side to side, his ass bouncing in the ridiculous little skirt. Every few seconds, he would pause to dust the baseboards, giggling to himself.
“Such a good little maid,” Selena cooed, circling him. She pulled out her phone and started recording. “Look at you, so eager to please. You love this, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” he breathed, glancing over his shoulder with a vacant, lustful smile. “I love it so much. It feels so good to be useful.”
“And you love pleasing me, don’t you?”
“Yes, Selena. I love pleasing you.”
She crouched down behind him, running a hand over his ass, squeezing the firm flesh through the satin. He moaned, pressing back into her touch.
“You’re such a slut, aren’t you? A stupid, needy little slut.”
“Yes,” he whimpered. “I’m a stupid, needy little slut. I need to be used.”
“I know you do.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick, purple dildo, slick with lubricant. She held it in front of his face, and his eyes lit up with desperate hunger. “You want this, don’t you?”
“Please,” he begged, his mouth falling open. “Please, Selena. I need it so bad.”
“Then open wide, sweetheart. Show me how good you can suck.”
He leaned forward, his lips wrapping around the head with practiced ease. His eyes fluttered closed, and he moaned as he took the shaft deeper, inch by inch, until his nose was pressed against the base. He held it there, his throat working, then pulled back with a wet, gagging sound.
“That’s it,” she praised. “Deeper. Take it all the way. Don’t you dare come up for air until I say so.”
He obeyed with desperate, sloppy enthusiasm. He fucked his own throat on the dildo, spit running down his chin, his eyes watering. He moaned and slurped, his hands cupping his own cheeks as he bobbed back and forth.
Selena watched, her phone recording every second. “Good boy. Such a dirty, perfect little cocksucker. Now let’s see how well you can ride.”
She pulled the dildo away, and he whined at the loss. She pressed a button on the base, and the toy began to vibrate with a low, deep hum.
“On the floor,” she commanded. “Impress me.”
He scrambled into position, straddling the dildo with his back to her. He reached behind himself and guided the toy to his entrance, letting out a long, pornographic moan as he lowered himself onto it. The vibration buzzed through his entire body, and his head lolled back.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he cried, his voice high and reedy. “It’s so big. It feels so good.”
He began to ride, grinding his hips in circles, bouncing up and down with increasing speed. The satin dress had ridden up around his waist, exposing everything. His hands clawed at the floor as he fucked himself, his moans turning into breathless, desperate pleas.
“Please,” he gasped. “Please, can I come? Please let me come.”
“Not yet,” Selena said, her voice cold. “You have to earn it. You have to tell me what you are.”
“I’m a slut,” he sobbed. “I’m a dirty little cum slut. I’m a stupid bimbo. I’m nothing but a fucktoy for you.”
“Good boy. Now touch yourself. Make yourself come.”
His hand flew to his stiff, leaking cock, and he stroked frantically, his hips bucking against the dildo. It took less than a minute before he let out a sharp, high-pitched cry, his body convulsing as he came, ropes of semen splattering across the leather floor.
He collapsed onto his side, panting, the dildo still buried inside him, his body twitching with aftershocks.
Selena stopped recording and pocketed her phone. She crouched beside him, stroking his sweat-damp hair.
“You did so well, sweetheart. I’m very proud of you.”
He smiled up at her, his eyes still vacant and dreamy. “Thank you, Selena.”
“Now, let’s bring you back. One, two, three. Awake.”
His eyes snapped into focus, and reality crashed down on him like a wave of ice water. He looked down at his own body—the ridiculous maid outfit, the dildo still inside him, the mess on the floor. His face went white, then scarlet.
“What—what the fuck?” he screamed, scrambling backward, the dildo sliding out with a wet pop. “What did you do to me? What did you make me do?”
Selena stood, brushing off her dress. “I made you face your true nature, Brandon. And it looks like you enjoyed it a little too much.”
“I didn’t—” he started, but the words died in his throat. Because he could still feel the ghost of the pleasure, the echo of the ecstasy that had flooded his mind. His body remembered what his conscious mind wanted to deny.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she said, pulling out her phone and tapping the screen. A video began to play—him, on his hands and knees, wiggle his ass, moaning like a cheap porn star. “I have some really compelling evidence that you loved every second of it.”
“Delete that,” he snarled, lunging for the phone. But she held it above her head, out of reach.
“I don’t think so. I’m going to keep this right here as insurance. Just in case you get any funny ideas about trying to undo my work.” She smiled, a slow, cruel curve of her lips. “And I’m sure your boss would love to see how his top sales associate spends his free time.”
Brandon’s face drained of all color. The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
“You’re a monster,” he whispered.
“No, sweetheart. I’m just a woman who knows exactly what she wants.” She stepped closer, cupping his chin in her hand, forcing him to meet her gaze. “And what I want is you. Broken. Pleasant. Unstoppably eager to please me.”
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “You’ll come back, Brandon. You’ll come back on your hands and knees, begging me to put you under again. They always do.”
She released him and walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Now get dressed and get out of my office. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”
He sat there, trembling, the maid outfit clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. And as the door clicked shut behind her, he realized with horror that she was right. Even now, even after everything, some part of him—some hungry, shameless part—was already counting the hours until he could hear that word again.
Showtime.
Showtime.
The word carved itself into his skull like a brand, and no matter how many times he scrubbed his face in the shower or pressed his palms against his eyes, it wouldn't burn away. He'd stumbled out of Selena's office building three hours ago with his tail between his legs, the maid outfit balled up in a plastic bag that he'd thrown into a dumpster two blocks away. His legs still trembled when he walked, and every time he blinked, he saw himself in that video—wiggling, giggling, moaning like a whore.
He sat in his apartment now, elbows on his knees, staring at the blank television screen. A bottle of cheap whiskey stood on the coffee table, half-empty. It wasn't enough to drown the images. Nothing was enough.
His phone buzzed. He lunged for it—half expecting Selena's name to flash across the screen—but it was just a text from his buddy Marcus, asking if he wanted to grab drinks tonight. Brandon stared at the message for a long moment, then typed out a reply: Busy. Rain check.
He set the phone down. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The worst part wasn't the humiliation, though that was certainly bad. The worst part was the hunger. There was a hollow ache in his gut, a desperate, clawing need that had nothing to do with food. His body remembered everything—the pressure of the dildo inside him, the vibration buzzing through his bones, the way his mind had gone gloriously blank and stupid and free. But it wasn't just physical. It was the silence. The absence of all the noise in his head. The way every worry, every anxiety, every nagging voice had just... stopped.
He'd never felt anything like it. And that terrified him more than any video ever could.
The days stretched into a blur. He went to work, smiled at customers, sold laptops and phones with mechanical precision, but his mind was always elsewhere. He'd catch himself zoning out, staring into the middle distance, and a voice in his head would whisper—Showtime—and his heart would hammer against his ribs.
He lasted four days. Four days of restless nights, of tossing and turning, of phantom sensations that made him ache with shame and longing. On the fifth morning, he woke up with his hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking himself feverishly, and he realized he had been whispering the word out loud for the better part of an hour.
Showtime. Showtime. Oh God, I want it. I want to go back under.
He yanked his hand away like it was on fire. He sat up in bed, gasping, his skin slick with cold sweat. The word hung in the air, taunting him, beckoning him.
"I'm not going back there," he said aloud, his voice cracked and hoarse. "Fuck that. Fuck her. I'm not going back."
But even as the words left his lips, he was already reaching for his phone.
---
Selena answered on the second ring, as if she had been waiting for him. Her voice was smooth as polished glass. "Well, hello, Brandon. I was wondering when you'd call."
"Cut the shit," he said, but his voice wavered, betraying him. "I need you to set me free. Completely. No more triggers. No more... any of it. I can't live like this."
There was a pause, and he could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. "Oh, darling. We've already established that I can't simply undo what's been done. The patterns are woven too deep now. But I can give you something better."
"What?"
"Control," she said. "Real control. The kind that lets you decide when the switch happens, instead of your body deciding for you. But it requires one more session. A longer one. And I need you to come to me willingly this time, Brandon. Completely open. No walls."
His mouth went dry. He knew it was a trap. Every cell in his body screamed at him to hang up, to block her number, to move to another city and start over. But his hand was already writing down her address, his ears already drinking in her voice.
"What time?" he heard himself ask.
"Tonight. Eight o'clock. And Brandon?"
" Yeah?"
"Don't wear anything you're afraid to lose."
The line went dead. He stared at the phone, heart pounding, and realized he was already hard.
---
He stood outside her door at seven-fifty, dressed in a simple dark button-up and jeans, but his clothes felt like a costume. He hadn't worn any underwear—he didn't know why, except that some part of him had known she wouldn't want him to. He knocked before he could think himself out of it.
The door swung open. Selena stood there in a black silk robe, cinched at the waist, her platinum ponytail gleaming under the warm light of the foyer. Her ice-blue eyes swept over him, assessing, probing.
"Right on time," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I appreciate your punctuality."
He stepped inside, and the familiar scent hit him—jasmine, burnt sugar, old perfume. His muscles tensed, his cock twitching at the memory. She closed the door behind him, and the soft click sounded like a verdict.
"Come," she said, leading him down the hallway toward the bedroom. "We have a lot of work to do tonight."
The bedroom was as decadent as he remembered, all black silk and gold, the mirrored walls reflecting the flickering candlelight. The velvet chaise lounge sat in the center, gleaming like an altar. But tonight, she didn't gesture to the chair. Instead, she turned to face him, crossing her arms.
"Before we begin, I want to be very clear about what's going to happen," she said. "I'm going to put you under, and I'm going to take you deeper than you've ever been. You will obey me without hesitation. You will surrender every part of yourself—mind, body, spirit—to my complete control. When you wake up, you will be changed. There's no going back from that."
He swallowed hard. "What if I don't want to be changed?"
"Then you'll leave now." She smiled, slow and predatory. "But we both know you're not going to do that."
She was right. Goddamn her, she was right. He took a shaky breath and said, "What do I need to do?"
"Undress," she said simply. "Fold your clothes neatly by the door. And then I want you to kneel."
His hands moved before his brain could protest. The fabric of his shirt crinkled as he pulled it over his head, exposing his torso—the lean muscle of his chest, the smooth skin, the trail of hair descending into his jeans. He toed off his shoes, unbuttoned his pants, and let them fall to the floor. He stood naked in front of her, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
She looked at him like his body was a meal she was about to devour. "Kneel."
He dropped to his knees on the plush carpet, his hands falling to his thighs. The position was submissive, utterly exposed, and it made his cock stiffen against his stomach.
"Good boy," she purred, stepping closer. She trailed her fingers through his hair, and he leaned into the touch without thinking. "You're so eager tonight. So hungry for my voice."
"I don't—" he started, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh. Don't ruin it with denial. Just be honest with me, Brandon. You want this. You want to be my good little plaything, don't you?"
He closed his eyes, and the shame warred with the longing. But the longing won. It always won. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, Selena. I want it."
"Of course you do. Now, look at me."
He obeyed. Her eyes caught the candlelight, glowing like frost. She raised her hand, and the silver pendant at her neck caught the flicker, swinging gently back and forth.
"Watch the pendulum," she said, her voice dropping into that honeyed, hypnotic cadence. "Let it draw your eyes. Let it slow your breath. With every swing, you sink deeper. With every swing, you feel your thoughts growing slower, softer, lighter."
He tried to resist, but his eyes were already fixed on the silver glint. His breath lengthened, deepening. The room seemed to blur at the edges.
"That's it," she murmured. "Down. Down you go. Drifting into that warm, dark ocean where there's no resistance, no fear, no shame. Just my voice. Just my commands. You feel so good, don't you?"
"Yes," he heard himself say, his voice thick and dreamy.
"You want to be good for me, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then let go completely, Brandon. Give yourself to me. And when you open your eyes, you'll feel only the desire to please me. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists."
She snapped her fingers. "Showtime."
The word detonated in his mind. His posture shifted instantly, his spine curving, his chin lifting a fraction. His expression went dreamy, vacant, lit with a vacant, hungry joy.
"Oh my God," he sang, his voice light and giddy. "I missed this so much. It feels like coming home."
Selena smiled. "I know, sweetheart. I know." She reached into a drawer by the chaise and pulled out something pink and silky—a pair of lace panties and a matching bra, frilly and delicate, clearly sized for him. "Put these on for me. Pretty boy."
He lit up, snatching the lingerie from her hands and shimmying into it with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning. The lace strained against his muscular thighs, the bra digging into his chest, but he didn't seem to notice. He bounced on his heels, clapping his hands.
"Isn't it just the cutest? I feel so pretty!"
"You are, darling," she said, admiring her handiwork. "Now, I have a surprise for you tonight. Something special. I want you to close your eyes and open your mouth."
He obeyed immediately, tilting his chin up like a bird expecting a worm. Selena reached into the same drawer and pulled out a thick, realistic dildo—dark silicone with veins and a flared head, coated in a generous layer of slick lube. She positioned it at his lips.
"Suck," she commanded. "And don't stop until I tell you to."
He wrapped his lips around the head, moaning as he took it deeper. His tongue worked eagerly along the shaft, coating it in spit. He bobbed his head, faster and faster, his eyes fluttering closed in bliss.
"That's it," she encouraged, gripping his hair. "Deeper. Take it all the way to the base. Don't you dare gag."
He obeyed with dedication, pushing himself until his nose pressed against the silicone, his throat convulsing around the girth. He held it there, tears leaking from his eyes, but he didn't pull away. He moaned, a muffled, desperate sound that vibrated through the toy.
"Good boy," she purred. "I'm going to ride you now, sweetheart. You're going to lay on your back and take it like a good little whore."
She pulled the dildo from his mouth with a wet pop, then pushed him onto his back. He sprawled across the cool silk of the chaise, his legs spread, his hard cock bobbing eagerly against his stomach.
"Please," he begged, his voice high and needy. "Please, I need it inside me. I need you to fuck me."
"I know you do, baby." She positioned the dildo at his entrance, coating it with more lube. "But you're going to beg more convincingly than that."
"Please, Selena," he whimpered, hips bucking into the air. "Please, I'm so empty. I need your cock so bad. Please, I'll do anything, I'll be anything—"
"Good enough." She slid the dildo into him in one smooth push, and his entire body arched off the chaise, a scream of pleasure tearing from his throat.
"Oh fuck, oh God, yes!" he cried. "That's so good!"
She fucked him hard and deep, her strokes unrelenting. His moans turned into gibberish, a stream of obscenities and pleas, his hands clawing at the silk beneath him.
"You like being my little cockslut?" she demanded, pounding into him.
"Yes! Yes! I'm a cockslut! I'm your perfect little cumdump! Fuck me till I can't think!"
She reached down and wrapped her hand around his hard, leaking cock, stroking in rhythm with her thrusts. It only took a few pumps before he shattered, crying out as he came, splatters of semen hitting his chest and belly.
As his climax shook him, Selena leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. "Showtime," she whispered again.
He didn't come down. Instead, his eyes rolled back, and he slipped deeper into the ecstasy, his orgasm stretching, expanding, until he felt like he was flying apart into a million pieces.
And all he could do was laugh, high and giddy, as she kept pounding into him.
---
When he finally came back to himself, hours later, he was curled on the chaise, wrapped in a soft blanket. He felt sore, used, emptied—but there was a warm afterglow humming beneath his skin, a satisfaction that made his stomach flutter.
Selena sat in a chair across from him, a glass of red wine in her hand. She watched him with sharp, amused eyes.
"Welcome back, sunshine," she said.
He blinked at her, his mind hazy. Memories trickled back—the lingerie, the dildo, the endless waves of pleasure. His cheeks flushed crimson, but beneath the shame, he felt a thrill.
"What did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"I told you," she said. "I took you deeper. You're no longer just my bimbo, Brandon. You're my good boy. My willing little plaything. And the best part?" She set down her wine, rising to her feet. "You chose this. You came back to me. You knelt and surrendered. There's no fight left in you anymore."
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn't come. Because she was right. He had walked into her home, peeled off his clothes, and dropped to his knees. He had begged her to use him.
"I thought I could control it," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "I thought I could beat it."
"Oh, darling." She smiled, stroking his hair. "There's nothing to beat. There's no battle left to fight. You're exactly where you belong."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, tapping the screen. A video began to play—him, from that first session at her office, on his hands and knees in the maid outfit, giggling, wiggling his ass, moaning like a porn star.
"This goes to your boss," she said, "if you ever decide to stop coming back."
Brandon stared at the screen, his gut clenching. But beneath the horror, he felt something else. Relief. A strange, weightless freedom.
"Now get some rest," she said, pocketing the phone. "I have more work for you tomorrow. But don't worry, sweetheart." She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "I'll take such good care of you."
She left the room, and the door clicked shut, sealing him in the warm, familiar darkness.
Brandon lay there, heart pounding, and tried to summon the outrage, the resistance, the man he used to be. But all he felt was the silk against his skin, the lingering ache in his body, and the hungry anticipation blooming in his chest.
He was going to come back.
He already couldn't wait.