Mitch

The room lay in hushed stillness, illuminated only by the gentle strains of jazz coming through the club’s sound system. Mitch stood just a few feet away, his fingers casually twisted around a length of soft, black rope that promised both strength and tenderness. Andi faced the stage where the St. Andrew’s Cross stood, its dark, polished wood glinting seductively in the low, ambient glow of Club Southside’s private scene room, a sacred altar of trust and desire.

He had not yet restrained her. Yet there she stood, every movement deliberate and calm, arms relaxed at her sides, her long hair cascading in natural waves down her back. She breathed deeply and evenly, each soft inhalation hinting at the quiet storm of anticipation that surged just beneath her composed exterior. In that subtle undercurrent of expectancy was her surrender, an unspoken invitation echoing in the still air.

She was ready.

“Strip,” he said, cutting the laces of her corset. His voice was low and gentle, a caress of sound that set the tone for what was to come.

Andi, without a flicker of hesitation—always absent when immersed in this shared space—gracefully let the corset slide to the floor. She stepped out of her panties, handing them to him when he held his hand out. She stood bare before him, a living sculpture of smooth skin, defined angles, and delicate softness in the places that ignited Mitch’s desire.

“Come here,” he murmured softly, nodding toward the cross.

She approached with unhurried elegance, each step onto the plush mat imbued with the quiet grace Mitch revered. Upon reaching the cross, she lifted her arms in a silent, eloquent offering—one that spoke volumes with no words.

Mitch moved behind her with deliberate care, expertly wrapping the cold metal cuffs around her delicate wrists and then her slender ankles. He adjusted each restraint to hold her body securely—taut, but without strain. She was vulnerable, exposed, and open, yet enveloped in a cocoon of safety. The tiniest hitch in her breath as he fastened the final strap was the only testament to the thrill of anticipation.

“You good?” he whispered, his voice a soft rumble meant only for her.

“Yes, Master,” she replied, her tone a blend of calm assurance and warming desire.

Stepping back, Mitch allowed his eyes to travel slowly over every contour of her body—the natural arch of her spine, the graceful curve of her hips, the quiet, steadfast strength clear in her every posture. There was no trace of fragility in Andi Donato. Even in her state of surrender, beautifully bound yet empowered, she radiated a potent, untamed force.

And every ounce of that power was hers to give him.

Slowly, deliberately, he let the flogger swing freely from his fingers, its weight hinting at the sensual promise of what was to come. Its soft deerskin—a texture chosen specifically for its gentle caress rather than its capacity to inflict pain—was to be a tool of sensation, of control, and most importantly, of trust.

The first strike was as light as a whispered secret—a mere caress of leather against the soft expanse of her shoulder.

She exhaled rhythmically, her breath a measured cadence that harmonized with the unfolding scene.

Again, the flogger traced its course—a light strike across her lower back that soon found its rhythm, each subsequent swish following the slow beat of her breathing. The thin strands fanned out, their touch like a series of soft kisses dancing across her skin, drawing forth a softly drawn sound from deep within her.

Mitch’s jaw set with determined intensity, not from hesitancy, but from his fervent desire to deliver every sensation she craved—and more.

Stepping closer, he let the leather trail languidly down the length of her spine before snaking back again. The next strike found its mark on the tops of her thighs, eliciting a startled gasp as her body arched instinctively against the cross.

And then he paused.

“Color?” he intoned softly, checking in with her.

“Green,” she breathed out, her voice a blend of breathless excitement and eagerness.

A slight, approving twitch graced his lips, and with renewed focus, he continued the measured cadence.

Repeatedly, the strikes built a layered rhythm—soft strokes that blossomed into sharper, more insistent taps. The tempo shifted seamlessly, sometimes languidly slow before speeding up in bursts. With each measured impact, he watched her muscles tense and relax in perfect synchrony with the beat, noted how her fingers curled in delicate surrender, her head subtly tilted forward, and her parted lips held in silent invitation.

She was not merely enduring the sensations—she was soaring, freed in a current of euphoria.

By the time his hand returned to caress her thighs, her skin was aglow, flushed with vibrant warmth. With a tender, exploratory motion, he reached forward with his free hand to brush his fingers delicately between her legs. Her skin was slick and responsive, evidence of the charged atmosphere that enveloped them.

“Good girl,” he murmured with genuine warmth.

A soft shiver danced over her body in response.

Then, the last strike landed just below her ass, a pinpoint of gentle intensity, before he released the flogger and stepped close, his body melding with hers as he positioned his hands on the sturdy cross that framed her head.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, pressing a tender kiss to her temple. “Open. Trusting. Mine.”

A soft, keening sound escaped her lips as he carefully slipped his hand between her legs, his two fingers gliding inside her. Instantly, she responded with a clenched embrace, her breath catching as his fingers curled in a beckoning motion, skillfully massaging her sensitive g-spot.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice laced with devotion.

Her cry rang out—a soft, ecstatic mixture of surrender and bliss—as her body shuddered against the cross, her legs trembling and sweat beading on her glistening skin. Mitch held her securely, his body a steadfast presence against her back, one hand persistently tracing warm, reassuring circles on her swollen nub while the other pressed protectively against her ribs, anchoring her in the moment.

When the tremors finally receded, he trailed gentle kisses along her shoulder and then her neck, murmuring, “You did so well, baby.”

With calm precision, he released each restraint with the careful deliberation of a man who revered every detail of her trust. As the last cuff fell away, he caught her in his arms before her knees could buckle, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed no more than a whisper of air.

Andi melted into his chest, still breathing heavily as Mitch wrapped a soft cashmere blanket—the one from the bench—with deliberate tenderness around her bare body. He nodded to the staff person, who would clean up the scene, returning Andi’s corset to her cabinet in the submissives’ lounge, clean his kit and return it to his locker.

He carried her up the stairs from the small stage and into the upper lounge, where the low ambient lights and deep, welcoming couches stood like an invitation to a world of gentle solace.

Settling onto an oversized sofa with her curled comfortably in his lap, the blanket still snugly cocooning her, he cradled her with one arm while the other traced slow, comforting circles along her back.

He handed her a bottle of water. “Drink.”

She did, letting him hold the bottle so she could just drift. Andi didn’t need to say anything; her silence spoke volumes. Her heartbeat gradually slowed, and her breath steadied, the lingering sensations drawing her back to serenity, safe in his arms and anchored by everything unspoken yet deeply felt.

He pressed a final, tender kiss into her hair, his voice a soft murmur that only the two of them could hear.

“I’ve got you.”

And in that embrace, the truth of their connection was unmistakable—forever and always.