For the other two flash forwards, click here. 

I’m on my knees on the wood floor of my bedroom. My hands are tied in front of me with my thick, grey scarf. I’m nude. Craftsmate is standing in front of me, dressed.

Somehow, things always sort of happen that way.

“Where are your nipple clamps?” He asks.

I whine, flailing my bound hands limply.

He smirks and crouches in front of me, reaching down to twist a nipple. “Where are they?”

“My dresser,” I gasp out. “Top drawer. Pink makeup bag.”

He gets up to his feet and pulls out the makeup bag. Rifling through it, he finds my knockoff hitachi. “Oh, hey, forgot about this,” he says and tosses it onto the bed. I roll my eyes.

“But I’m still sore,” I argue when he takes the clamps out of the bag.

“Oh, you thought they were going on your nipples?” He chuckles as he approaches me. “Turn around.”