My hips arched away from my bed. One hand pressed firmly against my mouth, muffling my stifled moans. The other moved hastily, circling the swollen bud. I was no longer Sarah, the prey; I was Sarah, the feast. I imagined the hunter – his eyes gleaming with predatory hunger as he rubbed my skin. The imagined sensation shifted: the rough chafing of the rope binding my wrists, the cold metal of the plate beneath my bare back, the sharp burning of the spices rubbed into my flesh.

A shiver ran through me. The fantasy wasn't cruel; it was full of surrender. My own arousal moistened my fingers, thick and sweet. The friction intensified, a delicious pain tightening ever more intensely. Would it hurt? Or would the heat consume me in waves of unbearable pleasure? My breath hitched, gasping. "Yes," I thought wildly, giving myself completely. "Take me. Cook me. Devour me." I climaxed violently, hoping no one had heard.