blur_5
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This story is a continuation of My Table, Their Rules
And just like the previous story, this also has a narrated version here:
https://quiethouses.podbean.com/e/unilateral/
Feedback is appreciated.
---
The house was too quiet again. Mom was at her club, Dad was on a rotation somewhere, and Amanda was gone. She'd packed up two weeks after the night on the table—moved in with him. My ex. The guy who had held me down on my dining room table while my cousin tickled me into oblivion.
I should have been relieved. No more Amanda parading her smug little victory through my hallway. The barefoot war was over. My kingdom, reclaimed.
So why did I feel so empty?
I perched on the edge of my bed, glaring at my feet like they'd personally betrayed me. Black polish, again. I'd been repainting them every few days for three weeks now, some ritual I couldn't explain. Silk scarves. Helplessness. His tongue on my arch. Amanda's eyes on me—hungry, not cruel, and that was somehow worse. I broke, not from pain, but from pleasure so sharp it almost hurt.
I tried to shake it off. Just a game, I told myself. Just a joke that got out of hand. But at night, when the house was too quiet, my fingers would find the spots on my ribs where Amanda had dug in. I'd shiver. Not from fear. From something much, much better.
I was conflicted. Or, fine, not that conflicted. A big, obnoxious part of me loved it. Loved losing control. Loved being the center of their universe, even if just for a few minutes. Loved the way they looked at me after, like I was something rare and breakable.
But I couldn't just text Amanda: Hey, remember when you tied me up and ruined me? Can we run that back? Please. As if. I'm Evelyn. I don't beg.
I needed answers. Was I broken, or just... normal, in a way no one ever admits out loud?
So I did what any self-respecting control freak does at 2 a.m.—I Googled. Tickling and submission. Losing control. Why do I like being restrained. The search bar judged me, but the internet didn't. Turns out, I wasn't alone. There were whole communities for this. People who wanted the sensation, the laughter, the surrender. People like me.
Then I found the story sites. Fictional accounts, page after page, all of them chasing the same high. Lers and lees. Safe words. Trust. Fascinating, but all of it just fantasy. Not real. Not mine.
Until I saw the picture.
It was in a sidebar, a small thumbnail in a gallery of user submissions. I almost scrolled past—just another thumbnail in an endless gallery. But something glinted. A thin gold chain around an ankle, delicate, catching the light. Grandma gave us matching ones for our quinceañera—mine snapped at a pool party sophomore year. Amanda never took hers off. Said it was lucky.
I clicked.
The video loaded, grainy and amateur. And then the sound hit me before my brain could catch up. That laugh. That snorting, hiccupping disaster of a laugh that had gotten us kicked out of church, shushed at funerals, side-eyed at every family dinner since we were kids.
Amanda.
My hands trembled as I navigated to the profile. The username was generic, but the gallery was extensive. Dozens of photos. Videos. Amanda in different positions. Amanda with feathers. Amanda with brushes. Amanda with... him.
In one video, the camera angle was low, focused on her feet. I saw a pair of male hands holding her ankles. I recognized the watch he wore. I'd helped him pick it out. His first real paycheck, and he blew half of it on a watch. I remember thinking it was too expensive for someone who was always late anyway.
They had been doing this for a while. This wasn't a one-time thing spurred by my teasing. This was their life.
I slumped back, mind spinning. Betrayal, jealousy, and something uglier. They hadn't just stolen my game and flipped it—they were living it. Exploring this world together. Exploring him in ways I'd never dared.
And then the worst thought: Why didn't they invite me?
I looked at the photos again. Amanda looked radiant. She looked free. She looked like she was surrendering completely.
I wanted that.
The war inside me lasted days. Angry they'd kept it from me. Hurt they'd moved on to a level I hadn't even known existed. But mostly? Desperate. I was done being a spectator. Done reading about people like me. I wanted in.
I wanted to be in the picture. Center frame. No more sidelines.
Eventually, loneliness won. I grabbed my phone before I could chicken out. Scrolled to Amanda's last text—the new place update.
Thumb hovering. Deep breath. No going back now.
I saw the pictures, I typed. I know what you're doing.
Send. Too late to unsend.
Three dots appeared immediately. She was typing. Then they stopped. Then they started again.
Evelyn, came the reply. We can explain.
Don't, I typed back, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I don't want an explanation.
I paused, gathering every ounce of courage I had, shoving aside my pride, acknowledging the desire that had been haunting me for weeks.
I want to come over, I wrote. Tonight.
Blank screen. Agonizing seconds. She was going to say no. Or worse, block me.
Then: Are you sure?
Yes.
We'll leave the door unlocked.
I stared at the message. This was it. No more pretending. I grabbed my keys and left my empty kingdom behind. I was going to their apartment. I was going to ask for exactly what I'd spent weeks denying.
I was going to ask them to break me. Again.
---
The drive was a blur. Music up, thoughts down. Every red light, the silence crashed back in. What the hell was I doing? Walking—no, driving—straight into the lion's den. My ex and my cousin, living together, sleeping together, tying each other up and posting it online for strangers. And I was about to knock on their door and ask to join.
I should have been furious. Humiliated. The last to know, the punchline of their private joke. But underneath the anger, pulsing like a second heartbeat, was that same, terrifying thrill.
Pulled up to a nondescript brick building. Not the suburbs. Their territory now. I sat in the car, white-knuckled, for five full minutes.
They'll leave the door unlocked.
The text echoed in my head. Not just an invitation. A test. Walk through that door, and I was admitting it—I wanted what they had.
I got out. Night air, cool on my skin, but I was burning up. Steps. Door. Apartment 4B. My hand shook on the handle.
It turned. Unlocked, just like they said.
I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me. Dim lights. Sandalwood and takeout. Music—low, instrumental, the kind you put on when you want to fill the silence but not think too hard.
"Evelyn?"
Amanda's voice floated from the living room. She stepped out—sweatpants, oversized t-shirt. His t-shirt. She looked domestic, but her eyes were sharp, tracking me like prey.
"I'm here," I said, my voice barely more than a squeak in the big, echoing entryway.
"Come in," she said. She didn't move to hug me. She just stepped aside, gesturing toward the living room.
I brushed past her. He was on the couch, laptop open. He snapped it shut the second he saw me. Stood up. He looked nervous. Good. Maybe I wasn't the only one whose world had flipped upside down.
"We didn't think you'd actually come," he said. His voice was that same low rumble I remembered, the one that had ordered me to lift my hips that night.
I crossed my arms, hugging myself, trying to look defensive instead of desperate. "I saw the website." My voice was steadier than I felt.
Amanda walked over to him, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. The intimacy was palpable. "How much did you see?"
"Enough," I said. "I saw everything. I saw you two. I saw... how much you like it."
Amanda exchanged a look with him. A silent conversation passed between them, the kind of bond that only comes from shared secrets. "We didn't mean to hurt you, Ev," Amanda said softly. "It just... happened. And then we got carried away."
"I don't care about that," I blurted. Lie. The other feelings were louder. "I don't care that you're together. I care that..." I choked on the words. How do you say, I care that you left me out? I care that I want to be the one tied up?
He took a step closer. "You care that you liked it."
Not a question. A fact. He knew. He remembered the way I'd moaned when he sucked my toe, the way my laughter had twisted into something darker.
My face burned. I stared at the floor. "I hated it," I whispered. Liar.
"Liar," Amanda said. There was no malice in her tone, just amusement. "I was there, remember? I felt you shaking. I heard you."
I looked up, met her gaze. "It was supposed to be a game. I was supposed to be in control."
"You lost control," Amanda said. She walked over to me, stopping just inches away. "And you loved it."
The air was thick, heavy. I was on the edge of something. "I want to understand," I said, voice shaking. "I want to know why it felt like that."
He moved to the other side of me, boxing me in. They were both so close. I could smell the soap on his skin, the vanilla lotion on Amanda's. "It's not about understanding, Evelyn," he said quietly. "It's about letting go."
"Show me," I blurted, before I could stop myself. "Let me in. I want to try it again. For real. Not as a game. Not as revenge."
Amanda smiled, slow and predatory. The same look from the dining room table. "You want us to tie you up again?"
"Yes."
"You want us to make you beg?" he asked.
I closed my eyes, shame and desire warring inside me. "Yes."
"And if we say no?" Amanda teased, her finger grazing my arm.
My eyes snapped open. "You won't." I dared her to prove me wrong.
They shared a look. Dark, hungry, perfectly in sync. They had me. Again.
"Go to the bedroom," he said, nodding toward a door down the hall. "It's through there. Take off your shoes."
My heart hammered. This was it. "And then?"
"Then," Amanda said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "you find out what you asked for."
---
I walked down the hall, legs heavy. The bedroom was big, the bed even bigger. Not just a bed—hooks in the headboard, ropes coiled on the nightstand like snakes.
I sat on the edge, mattress dipping. Kicked off my sneakers—just socks now. Stared at my feet, then the door, waiting. Terrified. Exhilarated. Exactly where I was supposed to be.
I didn't wait long. The door clicked. They entered. The dynamic flipped—living room, we were family. Here, they were predators. I was prey.
"Any hard limits?" Amanda asked, almost businesslike.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. What were my limits? I didn't even know what was possible. "I... don't know. Just... don't actually hurt me."
"We won't," he said. "Not in ways you won't like."
That should have been reassuring. It wasn't.
Amanda grabbed a rope from the nightstand. Not silk this time. Rough, thick hemp. My breath caught.
"Hands above your head," he commanded.
I obeyed without thinking. Submission came too easily. He grabbed my wrists, tying them to the headboard. The rope scratched my skin—a far cry from the smooth scarves. This felt real. Permanent.
Arms secured, Amanda moved to the foot of the bed. No ankle ropes yet. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a strip of black cloth.
"Wait," I said, panic spiking. "What is that?"
"A blindfold," she said, light as air. "You focus too much on controlling your face, Evelyn. We're taking that away."
"I don't—"
She didn't let me finish. Stepped behind me. The world went black. My other senses exploded. Every creak of the bed was thunder. The air on my skin made me shiver.
"This is new," I whispered into the dark.
"Relax," he said from somewhere to my left. "We're just getting started."
Hands on my ankles, pulling my legs apart, tying them to the corners. Spread-eagled again, but blind this time. Vulnerable in a way I'd never been. No way to anticipate the next touch.
A zipper. The sound of a bag opening. My heart stuttered.
"Okay," I said, heart pounding for a whole new reason. "Before we go further—we need a safe word."
"Already picked one," Amanda said.
"Good. What is it?"
"Unilateral," he said.
"Unilateral?" I repeated, frowning. "That's a mouthful."
"That's the idea," Amanda said. "No accidental tap-outs."
I frowned into the dark. "Okay. Unilateral."
Then something pressed against my lips. Soft, firm, filling my mouth. Before I could protest, Amanda buckled it behind my head.
I froze.
It was a gag. A ball gag.
I tried to speak, to push it out with my tongue. Useless. All that came out was a muffled, wet sound.
"Mmph!"
I pulled against the ropes, panic flaring. Blind. Muzzled. Helpless. Completely at their mercy.
And I'd just agreed to a safe word I couldn't possibly say.
I should have panicked. Should have thrashed, signaled, done something. But a dark, reckless part of me understood: that was the point. They weren't giving me an escape hatch. They were daring me to trust them completely.
I could tap out. Bang my bound hands against the headboard. Shake my head until they stopped. I had options.
I chose not to use them.
"Shhh," he whispered, right in my ear. I jumped, having no idea he was that close. "You don't need to talk, Evelyn. You just need to feel."
Fingers at my ankles. My socks, tugged off slowly, exposing my feet to the cool air. I curled my toes instinctively—a useless defense.
---
I shook my head, but not to stop them. Just reaction. The mattress dipped. Both of them, one on each side. Anticipation pressed on my chest. Where would they touch first? Fingers? Tongue?
I found out quickly.
Not a finger. Something hard, cold. I gasped into the gag as a metal wheel dragged down the sole of my left foot.
A Wartenberg wheel. I knew what it was from my late-night research, but feeling it was entirely different. The tiny, sharp spikes pricked my skin, sending a cascade of sensation up my leg that was nowhere near as sharp as pain but far more intense than a tickle.
My toes curled, trying to escape. The ropes held me tight.
Then a brush. On my other foot. Stiff bristles scrubbing my arch.
I screamed into the gag, back arching. The dual sensations were maddening—spikes on one side, rough bristles on the other. I wanted to laugh, but the gag strangled it into a sob.
"Look at her feet," Amanda's voice floated from the darkness. "They're trying to run away."
"They can't," he said.
He shifted, and the wheel moved up. Away from my foot. Up my calf. To the back of my knee. A notoriously sensitive spot. I bucked, my breath coming in ragged snorts through my nose.
The brush moved—my stomach, swirling around my navel, maddening, unpredictable circles.
I was lost. The darkness made everything worse. No warning for the wheel on my inner thigh, the brush on my ribs. Chaos. My brain scrambled to process touch, blindness, silence.
Unilateral, I thought desperately, trying to form the word through the obstruction. U-ni-lat-er-al.
But the brush found my underarms, scrubbing hard. Thought dissolved into white noise. My body seized, muscles straining against the hemp. Tears leaked under the blindfold.
They weren't just tickling me. They were breaking me down, layer by layer, with tools. They knew I'd done my research. They knew I expected fingers. So they brought out the implements.
He leaned down close, his breath hot against my neck. I felt the wheel trace the line of my jaw.
"You're doing so well," he murmured.
I shook my head, sobbing into the gag, begging with my eyes behind the blindfold—stop, don't stop, let me breathe.
Then Amanda spoke, her voice cutting through the haze. "Let's see if she can handle the oil on those pretty feet."
I froze. Oil? Oh, hell.
---
Something wet and warm dripped onto my feet. Not fingers—something softer. A makeup brush? A feather duster? I couldn't tell. Everything was sensation.
The oil made the soles of my feet electric. Whatever they used glided over my arches and toes, slippery, relentless, impossible to fight. They were painting me with sensation, focusing all their attention on my oiled feet.
I realized, with a jolt of horror and arousal, I had no idea how long this would last. No clock. No breaks. Just a body in the dark, a toy for their amusement.
And the worst part? As the wheel traced down to my toes and oiled fingers and tools worked over every inch of my feet—gliding, circling, prodding—a part of me never wanted them to stop.
Time blurred. The darkness behind the blindfold became a canvas for my mind—terrifying, vivid pictures of what was next. My body, slick with oil, made every touch slide, every scrape or drag twice as intense.
They shifted. Weight moved on the bed. He settled between my legs. Amanda moved near my head.
"She's trembling," Amanda observed, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Do you think she regrets coming over?"
"No," he said. His hands were on my ankles, gripping them tight even though they were already tied. "She's exactly where she wants to be."
I wanted to shake my head, deny it, but I couldn't. He was right. The fear was real, but underneath was a need that scared me more than the ropes ever could.
"Let's turn it up," Amanda said.
I heard a mechanical click. A buzz.
My eyes widened behind the blindfold. I knew that sound. A vibrator.
But they didn't put it where I expected. They pressed it to the arch of my foot.
I screamed into the gag, high-pitched and muffled, as the vibrator pressed into my oiled sole. Agony. Ecstasy. The vibrations rattled my bones, shockwaves up my calf, my whole leg spasming.
"Look at that toe curl," Amanda laughed. She grabbed my big toe, bent it back, exposed the most sensitive spot, and traced circles with the wheel.
I was thrashing now, or trying to. The ropes held me, turning my struggles into a useless, erotic dance. The buzzing on my foot was relentless—numbing and sharpening at the same time.
Then he moved. The vibrator left my foot, traveled up my inner thigh. Slow. Teasing. Tracing the line of tension, right where my muscles were tight from straining.
My breath hitched. I waited, desperate for him to go higher, to touch where I was suddenly, achingly empty. But he bypassed it. Pressed the vibrator to my hip bone, right on the ticklish spot that made me jerk.
Cruel. They stoked the fire and refused to let it burn out, torturing me with sensations I couldn't escape.
"Please," I tried to say, but it came out a pathetic whine around the gag.
"Please what?" Amanda whispered in my ear. She licked the shell of my ear, and I shuddered. "Please stop? Or please more?"
I didn't know. Honestly, I didn't know. My brain was fried.
---
The vibrator was turned up a notch. He dragged it across my stomach, circles around my navel, dipping lower, teasing the waistband of my leggings before retreating back up to my ribs.
I was sobbing now, real tears soaking the blindfold. Overstimulated. I needed a break. I needed air.
U-ni-lat-er-al, I screamed in my head. UNILATERAL!
But the word wouldn't form. The gag made it impossible. Even if I could speak, the constant assault—vibrator, wheel, fingers—made it impossible to focus on anything but surviving the next second.
"She's close," he said, his voice dark.
"Let's break her," Amanda replied.
Suddenly, the vibrator was pressed directly against the fabric covering my sex. At the exact same moment, he raked his fingernails hard down both oiled soles of my feet, then switched to using the brush and wheel again, never letting up the torment. My back arched off the bed. A silent scream, choked by the gag. Pleasure from the vibrator collided with the electric shock of tickling. My body couldn't make sense of it.
I came. Hard. Muscles locked as the wave crashed over me. But they didn't stop. The vibrator buzzed mercilessly through the climax, pushing me into overdrive. The tickling didn't stop, dragging out the convulsions, forcing laughter through the moans.
I was drowning. Flying. Ripped apart and stitched back together.
I thrashed my head, trying to shake off the blindfold, trying to breathe, trying to signal—enough, too much, I'm going to die. But they just held on, riding out the storm, controlling every ounce of pleasure and pain.
When they finally pulled away, the sudden absence of sensation was almost as violent as the stimulation itself.
I lay there, gasping through my nose, chest heaving, body twitching with aftershocks. Sweat, oil, tears—everywhere.
The gag unbuckled, pulled from my mouth. My jaw ached, throat dry. I coughed, sucking in greedy air.
Then the blindfold was lifted.
Light assaulted my eyes. I blinked, squinting up at them. Both sitting back on their heels, looking down at me—satisfied, predatory, proud.
---
I looked at them, vision blurry, body wrecked. I should have been angry. Should have screamed at them for taking it too far.
But Amanda's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were dark with hunger. And I realized something terrifying.
I wanted to go again. Immediately.
I licked my dry lips. My voice was barely a whisper. "I... I couldn't say it."
Amanda smirked, brushing a damp strand of hair off my forehead. "We know."
"The word," I rasped. "I couldn't say it."
"We chose it that way," he said, his hand resting on my ankle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "If you really wanted to stop, you would have found a way. But you didn't."
I stared at him. He was right. I hadn't even tried to tap out—hadn't even thought of it. I just let it happen. Let them break me, because I wanted to see what was on the other side.
I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Exhausted. Sore. Utterly humiliated.
And I'd never felt more alive.
"So," Amanda said, trailing a finger down my arm. "Do you still want to be in control, Ev? Or are you ready to let us handle things?"
I looked from her to him. Thought about my empty house, my quiet kingdom, my lonely bed.
I took a deep breath.
"Handle things," I whispered. I meant it.
They smiled. And the door to my old life closed behind me.
---
And just like the previous story, this also has a narrated version here:
https://quiethouses.podbean.com/e/unilateral/
Feedback is appreciated.
Unilateral
A Quiet Houses Story
A Quiet Houses Story
---
The house was too quiet again. Mom was at her club, Dad was on a rotation somewhere, and Amanda was gone. She'd packed up two weeks after the night on the table—moved in with him. My ex. The guy who had held me down on my dining room table while my cousin tickled me into oblivion.
I should have been relieved. No more Amanda parading her smug little victory through my hallway. The barefoot war was over. My kingdom, reclaimed.
So why did I feel so empty?
I perched on the edge of my bed, glaring at my feet like they'd personally betrayed me. Black polish, again. I'd been repainting them every few days for three weeks now, some ritual I couldn't explain. Silk scarves. Helplessness. His tongue on my arch. Amanda's eyes on me—hungry, not cruel, and that was somehow worse. I broke, not from pain, but from pleasure so sharp it almost hurt.
I tried to shake it off. Just a game, I told myself. Just a joke that got out of hand. But at night, when the house was too quiet, my fingers would find the spots on my ribs where Amanda had dug in. I'd shiver. Not from fear. From something much, much better.
I was conflicted. Or, fine, not that conflicted. A big, obnoxious part of me loved it. Loved losing control. Loved being the center of their universe, even if just for a few minutes. Loved the way they looked at me after, like I was something rare and breakable.
But I couldn't just text Amanda: Hey, remember when you tied me up and ruined me? Can we run that back? Please. As if. I'm Evelyn. I don't beg.
I needed answers. Was I broken, or just... normal, in a way no one ever admits out loud?
So I did what any self-respecting control freak does at 2 a.m.—I Googled. Tickling and submission. Losing control. Why do I like being restrained. The search bar judged me, but the internet didn't. Turns out, I wasn't alone. There were whole communities for this. People who wanted the sensation, the laughter, the surrender. People like me.
Then I found the story sites. Fictional accounts, page after page, all of them chasing the same high. Lers and lees. Safe words. Trust. Fascinating, but all of it just fantasy. Not real. Not mine.
Until I saw the picture.
It was in a sidebar, a small thumbnail in a gallery of user submissions. I almost scrolled past—just another thumbnail in an endless gallery. But something glinted. A thin gold chain around an ankle, delicate, catching the light. Grandma gave us matching ones for our quinceañera—mine snapped at a pool party sophomore year. Amanda never took hers off. Said it was lucky.
I clicked.
The video loaded, grainy and amateur. And then the sound hit me before my brain could catch up. That laugh. That snorting, hiccupping disaster of a laugh that had gotten us kicked out of church, shushed at funerals, side-eyed at every family dinner since we were kids.
Amanda.
My hands trembled as I navigated to the profile. The username was generic, but the gallery was extensive. Dozens of photos. Videos. Amanda in different positions. Amanda with feathers. Amanda with brushes. Amanda with... him.
In one video, the camera angle was low, focused on her feet. I saw a pair of male hands holding her ankles. I recognized the watch he wore. I'd helped him pick it out. His first real paycheck, and he blew half of it on a watch. I remember thinking it was too expensive for someone who was always late anyway.
They had been doing this for a while. This wasn't a one-time thing spurred by my teasing. This was their life.
I slumped back, mind spinning. Betrayal, jealousy, and something uglier. They hadn't just stolen my game and flipped it—they were living it. Exploring this world together. Exploring him in ways I'd never dared.
And then the worst thought: Why didn't they invite me?
I looked at the photos again. Amanda looked radiant. She looked free. She looked like she was surrendering completely.
I wanted that.
The war inside me lasted days. Angry they'd kept it from me. Hurt they'd moved on to a level I hadn't even known existed. But mostly? Desperate. I was done being a spectator. Done reading about people like me. I wanted in.
I wanted to be in the picture. Center frame. No more sidelines.
Eventually, loneliness won. I grabbed my phone before I could chicken out. Scrolled to Amanda's last text—the new place update.
Thumb hovering. Deep breath. No going back now.
I saw the pictures, I typed. I know what you're doing.
Send. Too late to unsend.
Three dots appeared immediately. She was typing. Then they stopped. Then they started again.
Evelyn, came the reply. We can explain.
Don't, I typed back, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I don't want an explanation.
I paused, gathering every ounce of courage I had, shoving aside my pride, acknowledging the desire that had been haunting me for weeks.
I want to come over, I wrote. Tonight.
Blank screen. Agonizing seconds. She was going to say no. Or worse, block me.
Then: Are you sure?
Yes.
We'll leave the door unlocked.
I stared at the message. This was it. No more pretending. I grabbed my keys and left my empty kingdom behind. I was going to their apartment. I was going to ask for exactly what I'd spent weeks denying.
I was going to ask them to break me. Again.
---
The drive was a blur. Music up, thoughts down. Every red light, the silence crashed back in. What the hell was I doing? Walking—no, driving—straight into the lion's den. My ex and my cousin, living together, sleeping together, tying each other up and posting it online for strangers. And I was about to knock on their door and ask to join.
I should have been furious. Humiliated. The last to know, the punchline of their private joke. But underneath the anger, pulsing like a second heartbeat, was that same, terrifying thrill.
Pulled up to a nondescript brick building. Not the suburbs. Their territory now. I sat in the car, white-knuckled, for five full minutes.
They'll leave the door unlocked.
The text echoed in my head. Not just an invitation. A test. Walk through that door, and I was admitting it—I wanted what they had.
I got out. Night air, cool on my skin, but I was burning up. Steps. Door. Apartment 4B. My hand shook on the handle.
It turned. Unlocked, just like they said.
I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me. Dim lights. Sandalwood and takeout. Music—low, instrumental, the kind you put on when you want to fill the silence but not think too hard.
"Evelyn?"
Amanda's voice floated from the living room. She stepped out—sweatpants, oversized t-shirt. His t-shirt. She looked domestic, but her eyes were sharp, tracking me like prey.
"I'm here," I said, my voice barely more than a squeak in the big, echoing entryway.
"Come in," she said. She didn't move to hug me. She just stepped aside, gesturing toward the living room.
I brushed past her. He was on the couch, laptop open. He snapped it shut the second he saw me. Stood up. He looked nervous. Good. Maybe I wasn't the only one whose world had flipped upside down.
"We didn't think you'd actually come," he said. His voice was that same low rumble I remembered, the one that had ordered me to lift my hips that night.
I crossed my arms, hugging myself, trying to look defensive instead of desperate. "I saw the website." My voice was steadier than I felt.
Amanda walked over to him, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. The intimacy was palpable. "How much did you see?"
"Enough," I said. "I saw everything. I saw you two. I saw... how much you like it."
Amanda exchanged a look with him. A silent conversation passed between them, the kind of bond that only comes from shared secrets. "We didn't mean to hurt you, Ev," Amanda said softly. "It just... happened. And then we got carried away."
"I don't care about that," I blurted. Lie. The other feelings were louder. "I don't care that you're together. I care that..." I choked on the words. How do you say, I care that you left me out? I care that I want to be the one tied up?
He took a step closer. "You care that you liked it."
Not a question. A fact. He knew. He remembered the way I'd moaned when he sucked my toe, the way my laughter had twisted into something darker.
My face burned. I stared at the floor. "I hated it," I whispered. Liar.
"Liar," Amanda said. There was no malice in her tone, just amusement. "I was there, remember? I felt you shaking. I heard you."
I looked up, met her gaze. "It was supposed to be a game. I was supposed to be in control."
"You lost control," Amanda said. She walked over to me, stopping just inches away. "And you loved it."
The air was thick, heavy. I was on the edge of something. "I want to understand," I said, voice shaking. "I want to know why it felt like that."
He moved to the other side of me, boxing me in. They were both so close. I could smell the soap on his skin, the vanilla lotion on Amanda's. "It's not about understanding, Evelyn," he said quietly. "It's about letting go."
"Show me," I blurted, before I could stop myself. "Let me in. I want to try it again. For real. Not as a game. Not as revenge."
Amanda smiled, slow and predatory. The same look from the dining room table. "You want us to tie you up again?"
"Yes."
"You want us to make you beg?" he asked.
I closed my eyes, shame and desire warring inside me. "Yes."
"And if we say no?" Amanda teased, her finger grazing my arm.
My eyes snapped open. "You won't." I dared her to prove me wrong.
They shared a look. Dark, hungry, perfectly in sync. They had me. Again.
"Go to the bedroom," he said, nodding toward a door down the hall. "It's through there. Take off your shoes."
My heart hammered. This was it. "And then?"
"Then," Amanda said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "you find out what you asked for."
---
I walked down the hall, legs heavy. The bedroom was big, the bed even bigger. Not just a bed—hooks in the headboard, ropes coiled on the nightstand like snakes.
I sat on the edge, mattress dipping. Kicked off my sneakers—just socks now. Stared at my feet, then the door, waiting. Terrified. Exhilarated. Exactly where I was supposed to be.
I didn't wait long. The door clicked. They entered. The dynamic flipped—living room, we were family. Here, they were predators. I was prey.
"Any hard limits?" Amanda asked, almost businesslike.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. What were my limits? I didn't even know what was possible. "I... don't know. Just... don't actually hurt me."
"We won't," he said. "Not in ways you won't like."
That should have been reassuring. It wasn't.
Amanda grabbed a rope from the nightstand. Not silk this time. Rough, thick hemp. My breath caught.
"Hands above your head," he commanded.
I obeyed without thinking. Submission came too easily. He grabbed my wrists, tying them to the headboard. The rope scratched my skin—a far cry from the smooth scarves. This felt real. Permanent.
Arms secured, Amanda moved to the foot of the bed. No ankle ropes yet. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a strip of black cloth.
"Wait," I said, panic spiking. "What is that?"
"A blindfold," she said, light as air. "You focus too much on controlling your face, Evelyn. We're taking that away."
"I don't—"
She didn't let me finish. Stepped behind me. The world went black. My other senses exploded. Every creak of the bed was thunder. The air on my skin made me shiver.
"This is new," I whispered into the dark.
"Relax," he said from somewhere to my left. "We're just getting started."
Hands on my ankles, pulling my legs apart, tying them to the corners. Spread-eagled again, but blind this time. Vulnerable in a way I'd never been. No way to anticipate the next touch.
A zipper. The sound of a bag opening. My heart stuttered.
"Okay," I said, heart pounding for a whole new reason. "Before we go further—we need a safe word."
"Already picked one," Amanda said.
"Good. What is it?"
"Unilateral," he said.
"Unilateral?" I repeated, frowning. "That's a mouthful."
"That's the idea," Amanda said. "No accidental tap-outs."
I frowned into the dark. "Okay. Unilateral."
Then something pressed against my lips. Soft, firm, filling my mouth. Before I could protest, Amanda buckled it behind my head.
I froze.
It was a gag. A ball gag.
I tried to speak, to push it out with my tongue. Useless. All that came out was a muffled, wet sound.
"Mmph!"
I pulled against the ropes, panic flaring. Blind. Muzzled. Helpless. Completely at their mercy.
And I'd just agreed to a safe word I couldn't possibly say.
I should have panicked. Should have thrashed, signaled, done something. But a dark, reckless part of me understood: that was the point. They weren't giving me an escape hatch. They were daring me to trust them completely.
I could tap out. Bang my bound hands against the headboard. Shake my head until they stopped. I had options.
I chose not to use them.
"Shhh," he whispered, right in my ear. I jumped, having no idea he was that close. "You don't need to talk, Evelyn. You just need to feel."
Fingers at my ankles. My socks, tugged off slowly, exposing my feet to the cool air. I curled my toes instinctively—a useless defense.
---
I shook my head, but not to stop them. Just reaction. The mattress dipped. Both of them, one on each side. Anticipation pressed on my chest. Where would they touch first? Fingers? Tongue?
I found out quickly.
Not a finger. Something hard, cold. I gasped into the gag as a metal wheel dragged down the sole of my left foot.
A Wartenberg wheel. I knew what it was from my late-night research, but feeling it was entirely different. The tiny, sharp spikes pricked my skin, sending a cascade of sensation up my leg that was nowhere near as sharp as pain but far more intense than a tickle.
My toes curled, trying to escape. The ropes held me tight.
Then a brush. On my other foot. Stiff bristles scrubbing my arch.
I screamed into the gag, back arching. The dual sensations were maddening—spikes on one side, rough bristles on the other. I wanted to laugh, but the gag strangled it into a sob.
"Look at her feet," Amanda's voice floated from the darkness. "They're trying to run away."
"They can't," he said.
He shifted, and the wheel moved up. Away from my foot. Up my calf. To the back of my knee. A notoriously sensitive spot. I bucked, my breath coming in ragged snorts through my nose.
The brush moved—my stomach, swirling around my navel, maddening, unpredictable circles.
I was lost. The darkness made everything worse. No warning for the wheel on my inner thigh, the brush on my ribs. Chaos. My brain scrambled to process touch, blindness, silence.
Unilateral, I thought desperately, trying to form the word through the obstruction. U-ni-lat-er-al.
But the brush found my underarms, scrubbing hard. Thought dissolved into white noise. My body seized, muscles straining against the hemp. Tears leaked under the blindfold.
They weren't just tickling me. They were breaking me down, layer by layer, with tools. They knew I'd done my research. They knew I expected fingers. So they brought out the implements.
He leaned down close, his breath hot against my neck. I felt the wheel trace the line of my jaw.
"You're doing so well," he murmured.
I shook my head, sobbing into the gag, begging with my eyes behind the blindfold—stop, don't stop, let me breathe.
Then Amanda spoke, her voice cutting through the haze. "Let's see if she can handle the oil on those pretty feet."
I froze. Oil? Oh, hell.
---
Something wet and warm dripped onto my feet. Not fingers—something softer. A makeup brush? A feather duster? I couldn't tell. Everything was sensation.
The oil made the soles of my feet electric. Whatever they used glided over my arches and toes, slippery, relentless, impossible to fight. They were painting me with sensation, focusing all their attention on my oiled feet.
I realized, with a jolt of horror and arousal, I had no idea how long this would last. No clock. No breaks. Just a body in the dark, a toy for their amusement.
And the worst part? As the wheel traced down to my toes and oiled fingers and tools worked over every inch of my feet—gliding, circling, prodding—a part of me never wanted them to stop.
Time blurred. The darkness behind the blindfold became a canvas for my mind—terrifying, vivid pictures of what was next. My body, slick with oil, made every touch slide, every scrape or drag twice as intense.
They shifted. Weight moved on the bed. He settled between my legs. Amanda moved near my head.
"She's trembling," Amanda observed, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Do you think she regrets coming over?"
"No," he said. His hands were on my ankles, gripping them tight even though they were already tied. "She's exactly where she wants to be."
I wanted to shake my head, deny it, but I couldn't. He was right. The fear was real, but underneath was a need that scared me more than the ropes ever could.
"Let's turn it up," Amanda said.
I heard a mechanical click. A buzz.
My eyes widened behind the blindfold. I knew that sound. A vibrator.
But they didn't put it where I expected. They pressed it to the arch of my foot.
I screamed into the gag, high-pitched and muffled, as the vibrator pressed into my oiled sole. Agony. Ecstasy. The vibrations rattled my bones, shockwaves up my calf, my whole leg spasming.
"Look at that toe curl," Amanda laughed. She grabbed my big toe, bent it back, exposed the most sensitive spot, and traced circles with the wheel.
I was thrashing now, or trying to. The ropes held me, turning my struggles into a useless, erotic dance. The buzzing on my foot was relentless—numbing and sharpening at the same time.
Then he moved. The vibrator left my foot, traveled up my inner thigh. Slow. Teasing. Tracing the line of tension, right where my muscles were tight from straining.
My breath hitched. I waited, desperate for him to go higher, to touch where I was suddenly, achingly empty. But he bypassed it. Pressed the vibrator to my hip bone, right on the ticklish spot that made me jerk.
Cruel. They stoked the fire and refused to let it burn out, torturing me with sensations I couldn't escape.
"Please," I tried to say, but it came out a pathetic whine around the gag.
"Please what?" Amanda whispered in my ear. She licked the shell of my ear, and I shuddered. "Please stop? Or please more?"
I didn't know. Honestly, I didn't know. My brain was fried.
---
The vibrator was turned up a notch. He dragged it across my stomach, circles around my navel, dipping lower, teasing the waistband of my leggings before retreating back up to my ribs.
I was sobbing now, real tears soaking the blindfold. Overstimulated. I needed a break. I needed air.
U-ni-lat-er-al, I screamed in my head. UNILATERAL!
But the word wouldn't form. The gag made it impossible. Even if I could speak, the constant assault—vibrator, wheel, fingers—made it impossible to focus on anything but surviving the next second.
"She's close," he said, his voice dark.
"Let's break her," Amanda replied.
Suddenly, the vibrator was pressed directly against the fabric covering my sex. At the exact same moment, he raked his fingernails hard down both oiled soles of my feet, then switched to using the brush and wheel again, never letting up the torment. My back arched off the bed. A silent scream, choked by the gag. Pleasure from the vibrator collided with the electric shock of tickling. My body couldn't make sense of it.
I came. Hard. Muscles locked as the wave crashed over me. But they didn't stop. The vibrator buzzed mercilessly through the climax, pushing me into overdrive. The tickling didn't stop, dragging out the convulsions, forcing laughter through the moans.
I was drowning. Flying. Ripped apart and stitched back together.
I thrashed my head, trying to shake off the blindfold, trying to breathe, trying to signal—enough, too much, I'm going to die. But they just held on, riding out the storm, controlling every ounce of pleasure and pain.
When they finally pulled away, the sudden absence of sensation was almost as violent as the stimulation itself.
I lay there, gasping through my nose, chest heaving, body twitching with aftershocks. Sweat, oil, tears—everywhere.
The gag unbuckled, pulled from my mouth. My jaw ached, throat dry. I coughed, sucking in greedy air.
Then the blindfold was lifted.
Light assaulted my eyes. I blinked, squinting up at them. Both sitting back on their heels, looking down at me—satisfied, predatory, proud.
---
I looked at them, vision blurry, body wrecked. I should have been angry. Should have screamed at them for taking it too far.
But Amanda's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were dark with hunger. And I realized something terrifying.
I wanted to go again. Immediately.
I licked my dry lips. My voice was barely a whisper. "I... I couldn't say it."
Amanda smirked, brushing a damp strand of hair off my forehead. "We know."
"The word," I rasped. "I couldn't say it."
"We chose it that way," he said, his hand resting on my ankle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "If you really wanted to stop, you would have found a way. But you didn't."
I stared at him. He was right. I hadn't even tried to tap out—hadn't even thought of it. I just let it happen. Let them break me, because I wanted to see what was on the other side.
I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Exhausted. Sore. Utterly humiliated.
And I'd never felt more alive.
"So," Amanda said, trailing a finger down my arm. "Do you still want to be in control, Ev? Or are you ready to let us handle things?"
I looked from her to him. Thought about my empty house, my quiet kingdom, my lonely bed.
I took a deep breath.
"Handle things," I whispered. I meant it.
They smiled. And the door to my old life closed behind me.
---
