Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor

please him. She must do everything — anything — to please him.
    A hand on the silkiness of her stomach. She shivers. Like the thumb just before, the palm is cool, gentle and strong, and it too brings respite from her fever. It begins a slow dance around her belly button.
    Is this really where the diaphragm is? she wonders. But the answer hardly matters. She knows it is too late. Knows she could not shift a leg or a shoulder or a finger. Could not get up. Could not break the charm if her life depended on it. The bonds woven by the voice, by the hand, are too strong. She is frozen, helpless. No, not frozen, for she is still on a slow boil.
    â€˜Now Sandra, put your lips into that perfect ring shape.’
    The hand continues its slow rotation, gliding, binding her more firmly with every loop. A finger brushes past her belly button, and back again, then begins a subtle probe of its slit, appeasing the fire inside her. Scattering ripples of exhilaration across her skin. This is so good, so good, and she hums softly, savouring her captive pleasure.
    She imagines that finger delving deeper into her. Stroking, rousing. She imagines moaning in delight and opening out like a flower to this tease.
    She feels the heat turning to need.
    Feels herself swelling with the first surge of desire.

7
    She wavers, confused by this new emotion. But the hands are spinning such a glorious waltz on her skin. They bring such relief — drowning all other thoughts. She cannot deny them. Does not want to. She watches herself responding to their call and hums again in acceptance.
    â€˜Mm . . . Mm . . .’
    A slap on her buttocks, cushioned by the skirt. Stronger this time. She shudders, with a gratified little gasp.
    â€˜Not good,’ reprimands the voice. ‘You closed your lips. This is very disappointing.’
    Her spirits dip as they had before. Oh no, she has angered the voice. She has displeased the presence wrapped around her. She must try harder. She must make amends.
    â€˜Your chest is too tight, too constricted. Your shoulders must be pulled back to improve your inner flow.’
    Her arms are forced behind her back, then her hands tied together. The cloth bites into her wrists but she does not, she cannot, complain.
    Rug against her cheek, tugging at her mouth.
    Fingers in her hair, pulling out her pins.
    Her blonde locks tumble upon her neck and shoulders.
    â€˜You must let go of your cumbersome beliefs, cut loose everything you’ve learned. Delve below the surface, past the limits of thought. Find the voice within.’
    The velvet words resonate so strongly in her mind that they seem to issue from deep within her. She is no longer sure where she ends and where the world begins.
    A series of soft snipping sounds, followed by a faint rip. Her blouse is pushed roughly from her back, from her shoulders. More snips, and her breasts are released from the restraining cups of her bra. The bra is whisked away while the beguiling voice dances in her head, holding her in its thrall.
    â€˜You are far too hot. Tu as beaucoup trop chaud. Trop chaud . You’ll be much better off without your clothes. Look at this, you are drenched.’
    A finger is run from her neck to her waistline. A slow, tantalising zigzag which grooves her flesh. Tests her readiness. The finger stops between her elbows, then drifts back up her spine.
    â€˜That will not do. How can you possibly focus on the job while cocooned like this?’
    A short silence.
    â€˜Please stay right as you are. Do not move, as this would jeopardise the chakra connections we have activated.’
    She can hardly nod. How could she move? She is incapable of getting up. She is floating, gliding, caught in a slow, relentless spin. She is only too painfully aware of her desire, of the heat melting her loins. Of that delicious yearn, taunting her as she lies there, wrist- and mind-bound. She thinks of the fingers playing on her back. She would like them to