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What does he see? The intensity of his gaze—this utter dominance over his toy—makes my belly swim and my mind spiral. I want to perform for him, to please him, but I don’t know the steps to this dance.

His fingers trip over my lips. Instinctively, I open my mouth. His thumb enters, grazes over my teeth, then tugs my face down.

The black silk parts. His cock is hard and ready for worship.

I bow over to tease the tip with my tongue. He’s already past the point of idle titillation though; Mr. Ito is ready to fuck. He grabs my hair and pulls me deeper onto his cock. I take it eagerly.

How long has he waited in the darkness for me? Did he imagine my body that whole time, planning how he’d pounce on me? Planning how I’d cling to this window sill while he pumped his cock into my mouth, planning to make me choke and gasp and writhe around his shaft.

No, he’s been planning something much eviler.

“You have a choice to make, Omocha.”

Good God, it’s not fair to make me choose anything now.

“The nice boy…” He jerks my hair, delighting me with the pain, and forcing me to look up him. At his hairless chest, the soft roundness of his muscles, the dignity of his frown.

“Or me.”

I’d dash myself to pieces to please him.

This has nothing to do with the money. It’s this moment, this surrender, his complete power over me. I’m addicted to this sex now, and … what if Carlos can’t satisfy this hunger in me?

“I don’t like to share. Not affection. Not intimacy. Certainly, not your body. After the run of the show, you’ll make your choice.”

He presents me with a pair of cuffs he’s hidden in the robe. They’re real metal lined with shining studs. Diamonds, if I have to guess.

I offer my wrists at once.

He smiles, a little smugly and clips the cuffs in front of me. “And when you choose me, I’ll be here waiting for you. Unmasked.”

Christ, he overwhelms me. Intimidating and scary, but sexy as hell, too. There must be something wrong in my head that I get off on this crap.

When my wrists are shackled in his beautiful chains, he slides forward in the window seat and pushes me to my knees. His fingers dig through my curls, and he allows me to suck his cock again.

I can’t stand it anymore. But when I unzip my jeans, Mr. Ito withdraws his cock and yanks my head back. For a moment—a trick of those hellish lights and my dizzy desire—the mask is his face, and there’s an angry demon frowning down at me. I put my hands on his calves.

He nods his approval. Strokes his cock in front of me. He holds my hair when I lean toward it, preventing me from delighting in that luscious dick. So, I beg for it.

I flash him the baby-blues, pleading with my widest, most innocent eyes. I’ve practiced this pose in a few professional shoots, on my knees, mouth open in invitation, lips wet with gloss, staring into bright lights and a photographer on his tiptoes. But I’ve never had a lover who made me beg enough to try it in real life.

Mr. Ito groans something vaguely word-shaped but not in any language I know. I’ve undone him, even before his cock returns to its rightful place inside my mouth. He’s as broken as me, as much a slave for my body as I am for his domination.

Mr. Ito allows himself to come almost as soon as my lips seal around his shaft again. The brief deluge and the sudden bitterness shock me, but he doesn’t give me any time to reject, only holds me tighter and pumps faster. So, like a good toy, I swallow and take it. Anything for his pleasure.

My cock rages, demanding I at least squeeze it. I’m as ready to come as he is. Christ, I can’t have walked in more than ten minutes ago. A bit of Shakespeare distantly comes to mind, “His soul is so enfettered to her lust that she may make, un-make, do what she will…” From Othello. Act Two. Scene Three. Not word perfect, and that annoys me.

Mr. Ito tucks his fingers under my chin. “Very good.”

I smile, sweet and innocent. “So, you forgive me?”

His smile is hollow. “No.”

He yanks me to my feet— rather, he tugs my neck slightly, and my stage-training rockets me to my feet. Improv 101, say “Yes and…” My body has wandered entirely into the role it’s been given, and I inhabit the physicality of weak, defenseless, and soft as if I were born to the part. I’m as strong as he is. I can break free anytime I want, but only if I remember who I am.

With the same unbearably light force, he drags me to the bedroom, hurls me on the mattress. I land where he wants me, on my back, legs spread. He crawls over me and pins my arms over my head.

This is real. His weight straddles me. I couldn’t get out of this, not without a real struggle. This reality makes my heart beat faster, my cock pulse harder.