Strapped down in humming darkness, blindfolded and gagged, I fight the void that's claimed too much already.

My senses fade session by session, leaving me adrift in isolation I can't outrun. Therapy promised clarity. Rebirth through denial. Instead, it strips me bare for him. The man whose steady hands cinch leather tighter against my sweat-slicked skin, whose breath ghosts my neck like a secret he can't keep. He tells me it's clinical. Necessary. But his fingers linger, mapping paths that spark through the black, syncing our rhythms in this locked chamber where no one hears.

I need touch. Trusted, raw. The kind that banishes numbness. Won't admit the terror twisting my gut, the impulse screaming to shatter every rule. Defiance keeps me silent as he adjusts the straps, his voice rough with edges he hides from the world. Sarcasm masks his obsession, but I feel it in the tremble of his grip. Therapy chains us, professional vows his noose as much as my bonds. Yet here, in suffocating dark, hunger builds unspoken. Agonizing. His body heat the only anchor, breaths desperate and matched, pulling forbidden wants from depths I sealed shut.

One corridor slip changes it. His arms catch me post-session, tears spilling hot as hands shake against my back. Vulnerability crashes through, his loyalty cracking under what we've ignited. Careers dangle by fragile trust. Emotional collapse waits if we yield. Mine demands he break me open. His craves the ruin only I can give.

Healing was the goal. Not this pull to surrender everything in the straps' bite.

What if the intimacy starving my fears demands we lose it all?