When I turn back to our bed, she’s recovered. Posed. Sprawled out on the bed, spread-eagle. Touching herself. Massaging her breast, her sex. In one hand, she has two pairs of handcuffs, lined with some soft plush black material. She latches one set to her wrist and the bedpost. The key is in the hole, so I can twist it and release her, when she’s ready.

She hands me the other.

I oblige. Cuff her other wrist to the bed, and now she’s at my mercy. And I’m not going to be ready to be done for…oh, for hours.

We’ll sleep, when we’re finally done. Eat. I’ll sneak another pill while she’s not looking, and that’s how we’ll spend the next two days.

God, I’m such a lucky man.

She’s a goddess, lying there, naked, flush with a fresh orgasm, writhing with need for me, begging me with her eyes to come closer. To take her. To use her. To show her how fully mine she is.

She doesn’t need to say a word.

Doesn’t need to hear anything from me.

This is our dance, and we’ve perfected the steps.

I take my time. Because thanks to the miracle of chemistry, I now have the time to lavish upon her. Used to be, I could do this with her naturally. Take hours to make her come a dozen times before I let her bring me to my own completion.

Maybe that’s the storyteller in me; maybe it wasn’t hours and hours. I’m no superhuman. But we would be in bed for hours. Again and again and again, and while we were waiting for my less-than-superhuman body to be ready again, we’d talk and confide and kiss, and when I felt myself stirring I’d crawl down her body and worship at the pink, lush altar of her womanhood until she begged me to stop, until she demanded I come up her and love her properly.

“Come fuck me, husband,” is what she’d say.

I have her handcuffed and helpless, and it’s her favorite thing, this. Helpless under my mouth. Because no matter how she begs, I won’t stop. No matter how many times she topples into frantic delirium, I push her more, more.

Until she says those words.

It’s a game.

How long can she go before she says it?

Now, with me gone for a week, it’s either going to be mere seconds, or it could be hours. You never know with my Nadia.

I worship at her altar, and she screams and weeps and thrashes, locks her thighs around my neck and squeezes my face with those silky, powerful, pinioning limbs and takes all I can give her until she can take no more.

Momentarily limp, caught between orgasms, she shifts her thighs, hooks them around my waist. Her eyes meet mine.