The Shape of his Soul is Chains & Whips

On hooks suspended from the ceiling hung row after row of heavy, metal chains and thick straps and braided whips. Gags and harnesses.

Leather. Leather. Leather.

Seemingly out of place in this cave filled with polished hide and gleaming metal, there was a sleek, wooden table set into the corner: carefully organized toys lay atop its smooth, shiny surface from brightly coloured feathers, to dildos of various shapes and sizes, to more sinister torture devices like a pear of anguish. Positioned at the head of a king-sized bed was, what appeared to be, a crucifix, though it hung upside down: Velcro straps at the highest point showed her where the victim’s feet should go.

The room was dimly lit by a single pot light in the ceiling and the only window was covered by sheer  black curtains; it all gave the space a dungeon-esque feel and, here she’d found herself, standing in the centre of the creature’s layer.

“What is all this?” She asked, her voice laced with apprehension and, perhaps, a bit of fear.

Her beast stood beside her, the serene look on his face told her he was more than at home in this place–this den of iniquity was his sanctuary–and smiled a rueful sort of smile.

“It’s easy to take off your clothes and have sex, but I’m going to give you true pleasure. I’m going to show you things your body didn’t know it wanted.”

And he did. By god, he did.

Pleasure