I never touch an untouched place without ritual…
The day itself feels like ceremony: roasted aromas coil up from the moka pot, sunlight sifts through the kitchen shutters in honey ribbons, and the marble counter is cool enough to raise goose-flesh from a single fingertip. Outside, city traffic mumbles, unaware that the apartment’s heartbeat has slowed to a hush. Steam clouds the narrow window, etching hazy runes that dissolve when I exhale too close.
Over coffee and almond biscotti I slide my sketchbook across the island; inside, ink diagrams show three stainless-steel plugs, smallest to largest, and an S-curved anal hook ending in a brilliant-cut onyx ball.
Eva traces the sketches, pupils dilating.
“Colour?” I ask.
She inhales, cheeks warming. “Green—but I need voice rights. If I can’t talk it gets dark too fast.”
“Granted. Yellow slows, red stops. No shame.”
We agree on prep: slow stretch, plenty of lube, music low—Billie Holiday, her favourite—mirror unveiled only at the finish.
Before we descend, I braid her hair into a loose plait, threading a silk ribbon through the strands. The small act steadies our pulses, ties intention to intimacy, and gives the perfume of bergamot somewhere to linger. She pockets the ribbon’s trailing end like a talisman.
Basement stands hushed, amber LEDs dimmed to whisky gold. A yoga mat and memory-foam bolster wait centre room. Eva kneels, deep breaths expanding the pearl of calm we cultivated upstairs.
I massage warmed silicone oil into her shoulders, then slide my palms down, parting her cheeks. The first finger—gloved, slick—circles the puckered star, patient as tide around rock. She exhales through her mouth, shoulders dropping.
“In—count five,” I coach.
One—tip enters, two—knuckle, three—past the gate, four—curl, five—still.
She shivers; nerve endings are awake but not alarmed. I add a second finger and scissor gently until her internal ring relents. Soft jazz threads through concrete gloom; trumpet notes flutter like moths along her spine.
A faint vanilla candle on the low shelf wobbles, scent tangling with the oil. Her eyelashes tremble; every sense is being petitioned in its own language.
Plug 1: slender, 8 mm stem. I press, wait for her nod. It slides home, silky. Her gasp is half surprise—“Everything feels bigger inside.” A giggle trembles, then a moan as I rotate, waking nerves like strings tuning.
Plug 2: wider bulb, 28 mm. I withdraw the first, massage oil, breathe with her. On the third exhale she opens, bulb seating snug against sphincter. Her pelvis rocks; pleasure outlines itself.
“Colour?”
“Green—lush green.”
Plug 3: final trainer, 38 mm teardrop. I let her hold it, feel the weight. She kisses the cool metal, blush sprawling down her sternum. With lube and time the glide becomes possible—slow, inexorable. She pants, lashes quiver. At the pop-in her thighs quake; inner muscles clamp, test, then cradle fullness.
Sweat beads low on her back; I blot with linen. Jazz hushes to brushed cymbals. She radiates molten composure.
“Talk to me,” I prompt.
Her voice shakes but holds. “Feels like being kept… but cherished. Edges everywhere.”
I thumb the narrow base, rocking plug a centimetre. She yelps, sharp pleasure ricocheting to her clit. Wetness pearls down her thigh.
“I can’t believe I’m dripping just from that,” she pants.
“You’re learning geography you never studied.” I chuckle, press again; she whimpers, cheeks flaming.
Shame becomes warmth, warmth becomes ache. Her words melt into breathy numbers—counting strokes of my fingertip like prayer beads.
I withdraw plug 3—slow, demanding. Muscles sigh open around emptiness; she mewls, craving pressure back. I show her the polished steel hook: S-curve, 30 mm ball, trailing eyelet for rope.
“Ready for my masterpiece?”
“Yes,” she whispers, awe spiced with fear.
I warm the ball in my palm and coat it with oil. The tip nestles at her coaxed entrance. On her exhale I guide half the curve inside; internal walls greet steel with liquid heat. Another breath and the ball beds fully, the shaft arching outward, stalk curving up between her cheeks to the small of her back. A ring for rope waits just above her tailbone.
“Colour?”
A tremored sigh. “Green—deep ocean.”
She kneels upright; I clip her collar to a short chain overhead. Her wrists are free. The posture pushes her hips forward, accentuates the curve. Every movement shifts the hook and funnels pleasure-pain through her core.
I draw away the sheet. Fluorescent glaze kisses mirror glass; Eva sees herself—knees spread, collar gleaming, steel hook catching light like a comet’s tail.
“Look.” My voice is velvet and verdict. “Look at what you’ve become for me.”
Her gaze locks, mouth parted. The hook flexes with each breath; she sees the glistening of lube, a twinge around stretched ring, slick trailing inner thigh. Her face ignites crimson.
“Say what you are.”
“I’m… your sculpture,” she stammers, eyes wet.
“Say the truth.”
“I’m your hungry, blushing slut—plugged and craving.” Tears spill, the shock of hearing it aloud fusing shame with fierce pride.
I step behind, palm her throat lightly, grinding the hook forward. The reflection shows my boot toe nudging her clit. She moans, and her hips chase—the hook tugs, an internal swirl.
“Count to ten,” I command. “You may climax only on ‘ten’.”
She trembles. I begin toe-pressure rhythm—one-two—each count a nudge, each nudge a ripple along steel. By “five” her voice shakes, tears streaking her flushed face. I see wet strings gluing her inner thighs. The hook glints, every micro-movement charted on the mirror.
“Nine,” she wails, body taut as wire. I halt, the footprint of my boot searing her need.
She sobs. Shame crashes, reforms as hotter pulse.
“Ten.”
Release hits like a shattering chandelier—light, sound, crystal tears. The hook rocks inside her convulsing channel; the orgasm ricochets, her walls milking the ball. Her cry paints the mirror with breath-fog, tears, spit.
I hold her until the tremors fade, then detach the collar chain, keeping the hook in place—a souvenir humming still.
I ease the steel free; the ring kisses rim goodbye. She sighs, her muscles flutter-close. I wipe her with a warm cloth and apply aloe-arnica balm. She winces, then melts.
Water, blanket, heartbeats syncing. The mirror still reflects her flush, mascara streaked, smile dazed and bright.
“Colour?” I ask.
“Verdant starlight,” she laughs, hoarse.
I meet her eyes in the glass. “Masterpiece indeed.”
Upstairs, twilight leans through skylight. The hook sits in the surgical steel tray, catching purple dusk. Eva, curled in quilt, fingers the faint pulse of stretched muscle, lips curved.
“When I saw myself,” she murmurs, “I thought: I’m impossible—and yet here I am.”
“That’s art,” I say, stroking her damp hair, “—impossible truths, made visible.”
Outside, church bells toll the hour; steel glints once more, and the city exhales around the secret gallery beating quietly above its streets.
