Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
The glass corridor had been my favorite place once. A refuge of dappled sunlight and old greenhouse smell, my own indoor fragment of rain forest. Now I’d remade it into a theater, a menagerie, a cage. He couldn’t see any of this, of course. The world behind that black silk blindfold was eternal midnight. My son followed, shuffling with care, hands slightly outstretched as if afraid the world might end a few steps sooner than I’d warned.
He was naked. As I brought him into the world, I now brought him into my world. It was not cold. I made sure of that: the heat set high, fans low, the air rich and clean, slightly damp so every exposed inch of him felt alive and needy.
“You’re doing very well,” I said, just loud enough to carry. My voice echoed off glass and tile and the green mass of transplanted ferns. I’d spent the morning rearranging the largest potted plants so they circled the center of the room, shrouding the chair and leaving only a single footpath in and out. Privacy, but also an audience: an audience of chlorophyll and open leaves and stems that stretched upward, hungry for sun.
My son shifted at the sound of my footsteps, head cocked, lips slightly parted. It was delicious, how reliant he’d become on his ears. I stopped just behind him and let the silence stretch long, the sound of our breathing the only measure of time.
“Careful,” I murmured. “Step up.” My hand pressed against the base of his spine, guiding him forward. A chair waited at the heart of this manufactured jungle. High-backed, walnut, with wide armrests and a seat deep enough for two. Leather straps hung in loops from the arms and legs, each with a quick-release buckle, each lined in the softest lambskin. I’d spent weeks planning and refining. Nothing off-the-rack for us.
He stood in front of it now, tense, hands half-closed and trembling. I let my silk robe slide open, the fabric whispering against my skin. He must have felt the subtle change in temperature, or heard the faint rustle, because he shivered violently, cock twitching upward in a perfect and involuntary salute.
I turned him to face me. “Sit,” I ordered.
My son obeyed, lowering himself gingerly onto the padded seat. I took my time with the restraints: left wrist, right wrist, then each ankle in turn. The process was slow, almost loving. I tested each strap for give and snugness, fingers lingering on the pulse points at wrist and ankle, the hollows behind his knees. Each time my skin met his, he flinched, then exhaled as if ashamed of the reaction.