Benediction (Ch 8)

Wherein a desperate plea unravels the final boundary, and one man’s devotion becomes the vessel through which a woman reclaims herself.

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Harold rubbed at his eyes and scrolled to the next chart. The stack of unsigned forms on his desk was still a small mountain, and the copier’s hum next door had become a metronome marking time. Co-owning a medical practice promised freedom on paper but in reality it meant paperwork: endless signatures, insurance queries, employee evaluations. At least tomorrow was Friday.

Down the hall, someone laughed—sharp and oblivious. For a moment, he envied that kind of lightness.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

Lys: Are you free?

Eva. He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. He made a mental note to change her name in his contacts—again—and typed:

Harold: Maybe in an hour. Catching up on work. What’s up?

No response. He set the phone beside the charts, screen‑up. Twenty minutes later, it buzzed again.

Lys: I really need you. Please.

A knot formed low in his gut.

Harold: Calling you.

The reply came instantly.

Lys: No don’t call I can’t talk.
Lys: Please just come.

He stared at the screen. The fluorescent light above his desk seemed to hum louder.

Harold: On my way. 30 min.

A thumbs-up emoji arrived a moment later. No words. He watched it sit there, glowing. He started a longer message, paused, then deleted it. Nothing he could think to say felt right.

He gathered the charts, slid them into a drawer, and locked it. As he stood he pulled his keys out, then hesitated. Driving would take longer this time of day. He didn’t want to waste minutes circling for a spot, didn’t want to sit in gridlock replaying her words. He shoved them back in his pocket and headed for the subway instead.

The train ride passed in fragments. He kept one hand on the pole, the other circling the echo of her messages. At Grand Central, he opened her contact—something to occupy his fingers while his mind spun—and replaced Lys with Eva. A small gesture, but it steadied him. He checked his phone at every stop after, but no new messages came.

The doorman recognized him now. “Good evening, sir.”

Harold nodded absently, pulse climbing as he crossed the lobby. In the elevator, he caught his reflection and made himself breathe. At her door, he knocked once. No answer. He lifted his hand to knock again.

The door opened. She just stood there—not the polished, composed woman he knew, but someone stripped bare of pretense. She wore black leggings and an oversized gray t-shirt stained by old tears. Her eyes were red, her shoulders trembling.

“Eva?” he said tentatively, still taking her in.

“You came.” She tried to smile and failed.

Harold stepped inside without asking, dropped his bag, and locked the deadbolt on instinct. Then he turned—and she collapsed into him. Not gracefully. Just…fell. Her forehead pressed to his chest, sobs shaking her ribs.

“Hey…hey.” He held her tighter. “What’s going on?”

No answer, just more sobbing. Suddenly her whole body convulsed, as if her breath had snagged on something too jagged to pass. She tried to speak, her mouth moving without sound, but the words she reached for disintegrated before they formed. Her hands lifted halfway, then dropped. One pressed to her sternum, trembling. The other fisted the fabric at his shoulder, anchoring hard and desperate. Her knees buckled. Harold caught her again, this time with a sharper urgency.

Something’s wrong. The thought flashed through him unbidden, and for a few seconds, he wasn’t her Dom or her lover, but a physician, bracing for a medical emergency.

Then she made a sound—low, broken, almost inhuman—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, as if her body had betrayed her by surviving the moment. She lifted her face at last, cheeks streaked with salt, pupils wide and glassy. She looked at him, not just searching, but pleading.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Eva stared as if memorizing its shape, or daring it to prove something.

Without warning, she surged forward and kissed him.

It was a claiming—bold, brash, and unrelenting. Her mouth seized his with hunger, both yielding and commanding. Her hands framed his face, not gently, but as if to anchor herself. The kiss was deep and endless, the kind that erases thought and leaves no room for doubt or escape.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven again, but this time from something else entirely. One hand remained on his cheek, the other wrapped around the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair as if he might disappear at any moment.

“Worship me,” she whispered.

Harold froze. The line she’d drawn and redrawn since their first encounter had just vanished—ripped up in an instant and discarded like wrapping paper.

“Worship me,” she said again, voice fraying at the seams.

The moment tilted.

It wasn’t just the kiss, or the words. It was the plea in her eyes. The splintering rhythm of her breath. The tremor in her hands, knuckles white against his shirt…not quite need, but close.

Worship me.

And he wanted to. God, he did. To fall to his knees and give her everything he’d been holding back since the night they met. But something in her voice, some raw edge not yet sanded down by desire, held him still.

He kissed her again, softer this time. Not yielding, but holding. His hands cupped her face, asking for nothing. When he pulled back, his eyes searched hers.

“I want to,” he said, voice soft and resolute. “But not like this. Not unless you give me all of you.”

Eva’s hands dropped, fingers curling into her palms. A flicker crossed her face—uncertainty, maybe fear—but she didn’t look away. The weight of his words pressed against her chest, terrifying in their truth. She knew he was right to ask, knew she’d been holding something back, but the thought of surrendering it made her throat tighten.

“I’m going to need something stronger for that.” Her voice was barely audible.

He stepped back just enough to take her in: mussed hair, blotchy cheeks, salt crusted eyelashes. No armor, no performance. Not Lys…just Eva.

Then it dawned on him.

“You need structure,” he said. “You need to feel the edges.”

She nodded. Harold understood: she needed something strong enough to hold the woman who’d been pushed too far outside herself.

“Do you trust me?”

She nodded again—shakier this time, but her gaze didn’t waver.

“Wait here,” he said.

He crossed to the bedroom, remembering the heavy chest at the foot of her bed. The lid creaked softly as he opened it. Inside he found the tools he needed: a strappado-style arm binder, a black ball gag, and a pair of adjustable thigh-to-ankle restraints with double straps, buckled and padded with suede. He gathered them up and returned. She hadn’t moved, but when she saw what he carried, her breath faltered. Still, she didn’t flinch.

“I’ll bind your arms first,” he said softly. “You’ll feel it across your shoulders, your spine. Then the others. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded once. He stepped behind her, guiding her arms into position and threading them into the leather sleeve. She exhaled through her nose as the binder drew her elbows close. The angle hit quickly but not painfully, just tight. He cinched it slowly, watching her body absorb the shape. Her spine arched slightly. She inhaled sharply.

Then the gag. He held it up—not forcing, just offering. She opened wider for him, and the ball slid between her lips. He strapped it at the base of her skull with deliberate care, gently tugging her hair out of the way. The buckle’s click was soft, but final.

Then the restraints: padded leather bands buckled just above her knees and again at her ankles, drawing each leg into a tight, folded line. He worked slowly, testing the give of every strap before cinching it. The soft clink of hardware punctuated her unsteady breath. Her body shifted with each adjustment, small, involuntary movements. More readiness than resistance; the quiet ache of being so close to held.

“I see you, Eva,” he murmured. “God…you’re beautiful.”

When he finished, he spread her legs wider. She yielded without hesitation, sinking into the stretch with a soft sound behind the gag. He knelt before her, one hand gliding to her inner thigh with the barest touch. She moaned, low and immediate.

“This isn’t punishment. It’s sanctuary. So you can feel what your mind won’t let you face.”

He stroked her slowly, deliberately. Her body responded at once—pelvis tilting forward, breath catching through her nose, a shiver rippling across her whole frame and into the straps. She was a study in opposites: trembling and contained, gagged yet pleading. Powerless in form, potent in presence.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s yours, not mine. I’m just here to hold the edge.”

She whimpered behind the gag, straining toward him, only to meet the limits of her bindings. That resistance sent another tremor through her—frustration laced with arousal, twined into a vibration that overtook her limbs.

He moved to her other thigh, offering the same worship in symmetric, ritualistic fashion. When she moaned again, he looked up. Her head tilted back, face flushed, muscles trembling in the grip of wanting and denial. She tried to move, hips making a shallow, desperate buck reaching for pressure that didn’t come. The futility only deepened her hunger.

He reached between her legs—not to take, not yet—but to cup her heat through the damp barrier of her underwear. She cried out behind the gag, a muffled sound edged with ache.

“No need for words,” Harold murmured. “Your body’s speaking for you.”

And it was.

Eva’s hips strained again, chasing the rhythm his fingers only hinted at. He held steady, his thumb tracing maddening circles, his other hand stroking her inner thigh, slow and grounding. He kissed a path up her belly, tracing the line of her sternum. At her collarbone his breath paused, hovering, before his lips pressed gently to her skin.

Her body fought the bonds not from panic, but from pure need. She pulled against every strap, trying to arch, to plead, to shatter the tension with nothing but longing. The restraints held her firm.

So did he.

“You’re not too much,” he whispered. “You’re not less because someone else forgot how to hold you.”

A sound broke from her—half moan, half feral sob, all surrender. And it shattered him.

At last, he slid her panties aside. When he touched her bare, her whole body bucked against the restraints. She pulsed with readiness. The sound that escaped him was roughened by anticipation.

“Your body already knows,” he said. “Let it show you.”

His mouth hovered for a breath, long enough for absence to ache as much as presence. Then he began in earnest. Bound, gagged, and straining, all Eva could do was receive.

He parted her with his tongue. Light at first, then firmer, more rhythmic. He didn’t chase her pleasure—he held it, coaxed it, letting her body find the tempo. Her muffled cries deepened, raw and unfiltered, rising from pressure and pain and pleasure now braided together like rope across her skin.

He worshipped her like an acolyte, making slow circles, a suckle, a breath to take her in. His hands anchored her thighs, though they could barely move. Still, she tried—bucking, straining to meet him. He held fast. She strained harder.

And in that exquisite tension of wanting and not having, being touched and not touching back…she began to unravel. Her hips shook. Her body shimmered. The sound through the gag was a sob threaded with pleas.

That’s when it happened. The moment Eva stopped trying to manage it. Her hips arched, her thighs splayed wide, and her cries broke open into something deeper. Not grief. Not pain.

Freedom.

Harold paused, just long enough to murmur. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

Then his mouth was on her again, this time deeper, more insistent. His tongue moved with command, coaxing and claiming, until she rocked as much as the restraints would allow. The heat spread under his palms, trembling through her limbs as she fought the rising crest—but she couldn’t stop it. Not this time.

The orgasm hit. Electric, full-bodied, impossible to contain.

Her gag-muffled scream was raw and glorious. She trembled so violently he followed her motion, mouth still on her, steady through the ebbing waves. Only then did he ease away, slowly, with intent.

Eva sagged into the bindings—spent, undone. Her chest rose and fell; her jaw slack around the gag. Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked at him—truly looked—as if he’d reached in and held something no one else had dared to touch.

He reached up and cupped her cheek, letting her feel the quiet warmth of his hands.

“You’re still here,” he said softly. “Whole. Yours.”

Then, and only then, did he reach for the gag.

Harold loosened the buckle and eased it from her mouth, careful as if lifting something fragile and precious from its bindings. A soft gasp slipped out as the ball left her lips, her jaw trembling from the stretch, mouth slick with the afterglow of surrender. He cradled her face with both hands now, thumbs sweeping the corners of her mouth with reverent care.

“Eva,” he whispered—not a question or a call, but an offering.

She didn’t answer in words. She simply surged upward and kissed him—hungry, yes, but no longer desperate. This kiss held no chaos, no demand. It moved like breath re-entering the body, like a river slipping back into its bed.

He felt it in the tilt of her face, the way her tongue brushed his without hurry. In the slow, undulating pressure of her lips that whispered: I am not clinging. I am offering.

He groaned into her mouth, letting himself feel it: her trust, her sacrifice. It burned through him, fierce and steadying. One hand slid to the back of her head, the other to her thigh, holding her open, bracing her. She hummed low in her throat, her body pressing into him not to flee, but to offer more.

When he pulled back, her lips parted, her breath warm and waiting. She looked up at him, eyes shining and lucid, a question flickering beneath the calm. An entreaty for direction, not permission.

He combed his fingers through her hair, then rose slowly, stepping in front of her. He unzipped his pants and freed his arousal—hard now, bold and offered without apology. Her eyes dropped to it without hesitation, only adoration.

He guided himself to her mouth, the head brushing her lips. She received him willingly, mouth parting, her tongue offering a soft greeting before she took him deeper.

Her lips closed around him with slow intention, and a hushed moan vibrated his entire length. His hands returned to her head, cradling rather than steering. She didn’t need guidance. She already knew what this was…and so did he.

Her rhythm built, slow and devout. Her eyes never left his, present without passivity. Harold—heart thudding, body taut—felt something unspool inside him. Not lust. Not dominance.

Grace.

He withdrew slowly, reverently. Her lips remained parted, reluctant to release him. She whimpered, soft and trembling, and he could still feel the pulse of want in her as he stepped away. Instead of guiding himself to her again, he sank to his knees and laid his hands gently along her jawline.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice low and firm. “Not what happened, I know you’re not ready for that yet. Tell me what it made you feel. What you feel right now.”

Eva’s eyes searched his face, as if seeking an exit. There wasn’t one. He held her gently, insistently—not asking for details, simply reasserting the need for presence. At last, her lips parted.

“Grief,” she whispered.

He nodded, saying nothing.

“Fear,” she added, her voice catching. “Of…of not being enough.” Her breath skipped. “Loss. Anger. Shame.” The last word seemed to surprise even her.

Harold stayed silent. He let her name what no one else had held space for.

“And…something else,” she breathed. “Wanting.”

He kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Then lightly brushed his thumb along her lower lip.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now I can hold you for real.”

He rose and stepped behind her, hands steady and silent. The buckles on the strappado binder gave way with soft, metallic clicks. As the cuffs released, he came around front and caught her wrists, guiding them forward with care. A soft hiss slipped from her lips as blood surged back—shoulders tight, fingers tingling. He kneaded her muscles, drawing slow, steady circles with his thumbs and coaxing life back into her limbs. Her breath stuttered, then slowly found its tempo.

Then, with sudden intensity, her arms came alive, wrapping around him as though yielding were the purest form of holding. She clung to him like the last solid thing in a world that no longer made sense. Her face pressed to his chest—not sobbing, just trembling, her whole body thrumming with the aftermath of release.

He held her close for a while, not rocking or swaying, just being the still point she could lean into. Then he kissed the top of her head and rose. Quietly, without fanfare, he began to undress—shirt first, then pants each motion slow and deliberate, as she watched with dazed, unblinking focus. When he stepped out of his briefs, his body fully bare before her, there was no performance in it. Just readiness. For her. For this.

He eased her back, laying her gently onto the rug. Her knees fell open on instinct, shaped through the spread enforced by the restraints around her legs. She didn’t resist.

Harold moved between her legs and positioned himself over her, feeling the heat radiating upwards from her hips. Their eyes met. Her lips parted, pupils wide, breath already quickening not from fear, but from readiness. His hand slipped down, hooked the lace, and with one hard motion, ripped her underwear free. The sound of tearing fabric was a whisper compared to the roar of what passed between them. Watching her, bound yet unafraid, he understood: she was the one offering, and in that moment there was nothing more precious.

He entered her, slow and reverent, his body folding over hers like a vow made whole.

As he settled himself, his movements carried the quiet gravity of a man placing something sacred at the center of a circle: not to contain, but to protect. She gasped at the stretch though her body welcomed him without resistance, responding with long-held need, finally given space to breathe.

He braced his body, forearms planted beside her shoulders, gaze locked with hers. He didn’t move—not yet. He stayed inside her, watching the change ripple across her face: eyes widening, then softening; mouth trembling not with pain, but with something closer to awe.

“Eva,” he breathed. His voice roughened by want, pulled from someplace deeper than sound.

She reached up with newly freed arms, placing her palms flat against his chest. Her touch grounded rather than grasped, as if reminding herself that this was real.

He began to move. Not fast, but not soft either, each thrust deliberate, each press of his hips like a litany whispered in flesh. Her body rose to meet him, the thigh straps tugging tight as her need surged upward. She groaned with each thrust, not from pain, but with hunger for more of him, more of this, more of herself reclaimed.

The pace built gradually, heat blooming between them in long, molten strokes. One hand circled her clit in slow devotion, the other pressed firm at her back as if to remind her: You are worthy. You are wanted. She whispered his name between gasps: not Dellen, not sir…just Harold.

That name on her lips was the benediction he hadn’t known he needed.

He pressed his forehead to hers as their rhythm deepened. Her breath turned ragged, awash in sensation.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again and again, a mantra rooting them both. “You’re safe. You belong to me here.”

Eva cried out when she came. The sound was not loud but it was vast, as if something monstrous inside her had finally given way. Harold followed a few short breaths later, letting go only when she had, losing himself in the heat and grip and exquisite giving of her body.

When the waves subsided and he softened inside her, he didn’t withdraw. He stayed there, chest to chest, one hand cradling her cheek, the other resting at her thigh, just above the leather strap. Their breath tangled. Their bodies—marked by salt, sweat, and touch—held still.

Eva closed her eyes, and when they opened again, something was changed. Not emptied, but steadied. Filled with something hers again. Her arms, still around him, loosened into stillness. Her breath came in soft, uneven waves…the unmistakable weight of release, the kind that leaves nothing more to prove.

Harold pressed a kiss to her temple.

Then, slowly and gently, he pulled out and began to release her, one cuff at a time. She didn’t stir, just let her arms fall, her body sinking back, eyes closed. Her face was slack with an exhaustion that lived deeper than the body.

The last strap came loose, and he gathered her legs into his lap. His palms glided over her skin, tracing the shallow grooves left by leather. He kneaded her calves and thighs, thumbs working in slow, steady circles to ease the tension. Her breath deepened under his care, small tremors of relief rippling through her body as the ache unwound. Neither of them felt the need to speak. The room filled only with the rhythm of his hands and the soft sound of her breathing.

When she had fully softened beneath his touch, he scooped her up. Eva barely stirred, light in his arms despite everything she had surrendered, everything she had poured into him. He carried her to the bedroom. The sheets were already turned down, the light muted with the hush of early evening filtering through the blinds.

He laid her gently on the bed. Her eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded and dazed. No words passed between them. There was nothing they cared to say. Harold climbed in beside her, drawing the sheets over their bare bodies. He didn’t need to ask permission. She had already given him everything.

His lips found her skin—her shoulder, her sternum, the curve of her hip. Not with hunger, nor with the urgency of before. This was something quieter, deeper—a touch that felt like remembering, a reverence made flesh.

He caressed her slowly, reading her body without question. Where her breath caught, where her limbs softened, where her toes curled beneath the sheets…those were the places he lingered. Not to arouse, but to tend. To witness.

Her body spoke now in subtleties. A tilt of her neck, the stretch of her foot, a shiver that wasn’t born of cold. He followed each cue with quiet devotion, each touch a whisper: I see you. I honor you.

Bit by bit, her breath evened. Her eyes drifted closed. Still, he didn’t stop, only softened. His fingers slowed, his kisses grew lighter. He traced the curve of her spine, the dip of her back, the soft of her thigh with the quiet awe of a man who had once believed this kind of closeness wasn’t meant for him.

She drifted. And when her body stilled completely—when even the need to stay awake had slipped away—he folded her into his arms beneath the covers and drew her to his chest. He knew enough not to ask for answers, not tonight. But he held her like he meant to earn them.

In the hush of that moment, something shifted in him too. Not a revelation, but a settling. A quiet recognition that, for once, he was exactly where he was meant to be.