Restraint
What happens when the nurse meets a line he can’t cross?
⚠️ Content Warning
This image includes explicit nudity, sexual themes, depictions of restraint and power imbalance, and references to urolagnia (urination). Viewer discretion is advised, particularly for those sensitive to imagery involving control, confinement, or bodily fluids.
My name is Richard. I’m a certified nurse practitioner employed by William and Kathy Harrison. My main charge is Mr. Harrison—Bill—whose staggering success as a venture capitalist is matched only by the recent slide in his mental acuity. My job is to keep him grounded: meds on time, routines intact, crises averted.
While making my rounds through the mansion to confirm his morning dose, I heard a careful, steady voice call from a guest room: “Hello… is someone there?”
I paused, triangulated the sound, and opened the door.
On dark, rumpled sheets, a woman lay spread‑out, wrists and ankles secured by padded cuffs and chains; the guest room lights set low picked out her form against the black bedding.
“Okay, first… hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she replied, unruffled. The calm of a professional who’s seen stranger evenings.
“Since you’re obviously not Mrs. Harrison, might I ask who you are, why you’re… like this, and where Mr. Harrison went?”
I suspected Bill was somewhere on the property. When his focus slips, he wanders—loses the thread mid‑scene, mid‑sentence, mid‑anything. Though how he could lose focus on this was beyond me.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “He was here. Helped me get into… this. Said he’d be right back. That was hours ago.”
“Right. I get the picture.”
“So could you do a girl a solid and let me—uh—out?”
I hesitated. No SOP covered this. “Let me find Mr. Harrison first.”
“Wait, what? Can’t you do that after you let me out?” The first crack in her composure.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “This could be exactly what it looks like—consensual, above board—and you were unaware of his condition. Or… it could be something I need to document, especially if he’s had an episode. If there’s any chance this is a medical emergency or a scene that went sideways, you’re already secured, which simplifies things while I check on him.”
She exhaled, frustrated. “I really need a bathroom.”
“I figured. Give me five minutes.”
I found Bill asleep in his favorite leather chair in the private office, breathing easy. Pulse steady. It was still early for his next dose. I tucked a blanket over him and let him drift through whatever multimillionaires dream about—hostile takeovers or offshore sunsets, who knows—and headed back.
“Well?” she asked. “Still breathing?”
“Very much. He just wandered off and dozed.” I held up a bedpan. “For your immediate problem.”
“You’re not going to let me out, are you?”
“I will. I just need to think through the fallout. Hypersexuality can be part of his diagnosis. If I free you and this goes straight to the tabloids, it could crush his wife and set a fire under half the companies tied to him. They’ve been good to me. I don’t want to make it worse.”
“Frontotemporal, right?” she said softly. “Disinhibition?”
Her quick diagnosis was a bit of a surprise: “Beautiful and smart.”
She closed her eyes, jaw tense. “I can’t wait.”
“Understood.”
I helped position the pan and kept my face clinical, my voice steady—doing the thing nurses do, handling the messy parts without judgment. Or trying to. The truth was, I didn’t quite look away; professionalism blurred at the edges into plain curiosity, and heat. She caught it—clocked the stare—and a half‑smirk tugged at her mouth. When she finished, I disposed of it in the en suite and ran warm water over a fresh towel.
At the sink I caught my reflection: hospital scrub top, mansion marble, a man about to choose wrong in three different ways. I pictured the board hearing, the word ‘boundary’ underlined twice. My hands shook; I blamed the water.
“May I?” I asked when I re-entered with the towel.
She met my eyes, reading more than I meant to show. “You may… but not with the towel.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Different kind of clean,” she murmured, a knowing edge to it. “If you’re going to help, help.” She tilted her head, eyes flicking to mine. “I saw the way you were looking—at it, at me. You like that kind of thing.” Not accusing; just cataloging.
She wasn’t guessing. A pro, I realized—reading tells, setting pace. Someone who’d been asked for a hundred flavors of peculiar and filed each under: “If the money’s right, why not?”
My pulse ticked up. A line hummed between us— dubious consent, curiosity, and a dozen ethical alarms. I took a breath as I realized I might have just stumbled on a new kink I wasn’t even aware of.
“I’m going to need therapy after this.”
“You’d be surprised how quasi‑normal this is for me,” she said.
I moved closer. A faint floral perfume and clean linen cut the air; the bedside lamp hummed, small and constant. She held my gaze, steady, and nodded once.
When I leaned in, my mouth and tongue finding her, she gasped.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said as my tongue darted out, testing, tasting.
“I’ll tell you after you let me go,” she said. As her voice catches in her throat.
My tongue traced a slow, deliberate line through her slick heat. Her back arched off the dark sheets, the chains on her wrists rattling softly. A sharp gasp, then a low, shuddering moan. I could taste her—dirty, tart, alive—and the reality of what I was doing, of where I was, of what I was tasting, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to my core.
I’m a professional, a voice in my head insisted. The voice was faint, drowned out by the pounding of my heart and the sound of her breathing, growing more ragged by the second.
I slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them upward. Her inner muscles clenched around me, hot and insistent.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, her head thrashing side to side. “Okay… okay, wait. A deal.”
I didn’t stop. This was containment, I told himself. Risk management. Nothing more. My fingers worked in a steady rhythm, my thumb circling the swollen bundle of nerves above. Her hips strained against the restraints, meeting every thrust.
“If I let you fuck me,” she panted, the words rushing out between gasps, “will you let me go? Really let me go?”
I leaned back, my fingers still buried deep inside her. Her eyes were glazed, desperate. I could feel the tension coiling in her body, the promise of release just out of reach. I was playing with fire, and we both knew it.
“I’m not sure I can untie you,” I said, my own voice rough. “Not until I get you to sign an NDA or something. Can’t have you talking.”
A sly, breathless smile touched her lips. “Then why don’t you put something in my mouth to shut me up?”
The challenge hung between us, thick and electric. I stood, my movements deliberate, and undid my pants. Her eyes followed me, dark with a mix of defiance and hunger. I guided myself to her lips. She opened for me without hesitation, her tongue swirling around the head before taking me deeper.
The wet, tight heat of her mouth was overwhelming. Every nerve misfired at once; breathing suddenly felt optional. I let out a ragged groan, one hand tangling in her hair, holding her in place. My other hand found her breast, kneading the soft weight, my thumb brushing over a taut nipple. Then lower, my fingers finding her clit again, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts into her mouth.
She moaned around me, the vibration traveling straight up my spine. Leather creaked at her wrists; the chains gave a quick, bright rattle. Her hips bucked, seeking more friction from my busy fingers. The mattress groaned; cotton rasped against my forearms; the room’s cool air lifted the hairs on my neck. I could feel her getting closer, her body tensing, her cries muffled. I pulled back, leaving her gasping.
Her breath thinned into quick, shallow pulls; heat came off her skin in waves; my own pulse ticked loud in my ears. “How do I get you to trust me?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
I didn’t answer immediately. I reached for my medical bag, my hands steady despite the chaos inside me. I rolled the condom on, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Do I seem like the trusting type?” I finally said, positioning myself at her entrance.
I pushed into her slowly, letting her feel every inch. A sharp, pleasured cry tore from her throat. She was so wet, so impossibly tight. I sank deep, burying myself completely, and stayed there for a long moment, both of us trembling. Cool air slid between us; the quiet rushed in—HVAC hush, a distant clock counting out the pause.
“Tell me you’ll sign the NDA,” I growled, beginning to move with slow, grinding thrusts.
“No,” she whispered, but it was weak, contradicted by the way her legs tried to wrap around me, held back by the cuffs.
I increased my pace, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. “Sign it.”
“Do you know how much money…” she gasped, “...oh, fuck, you’re so deep… this little situation is worth?”
Anger, or maybe just pure, raw need, flared in me. I reached for the chain between her ankle cuffs, and with a grunt, lifted her lower half off the bed. The new angle was brutal, perfect. I drove into her, each thrust hitting a spot that made her scream. Her restraints held, the bed frame creaking in protest. She was moaning nonsense, her eyes squeezed shut, teetering on the very edge.
I felt her inner muscles beginning to flutter, tightening. Now.
I pulled out completely.
Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and betrayal. “Wait! What are you doing?”
“Sign it,” I said, my voice flat.
“No!”
I slammed back into her, a devastating thrust against her collapsing inner walls. I pulled out again and again, slamming back into her, using her inability to move to my advantage. Each reentry causes her to cry out, breaking her professional calm and reducing her to lustful whimpers. Then, thinking to myself, what’s the definition of insanity, I pulled out.
“Let’ try a different approach.”
I didn’t give her time to think. I spat on my hand, slicked myself, and pressed the head of my latex-covered cock against her other entrance. She froze. I pushed, just an inch. A strangled sound escaped her.
“Sign it.”
“Maybe!” she cried, the word ripped from her.
I sheathed myself inside her in one long, relentless stroke. Her mouth formed a beautiful O, a raw, open-mouthed sound of overwhelming sensation. It was tighter, hotter, and almost unbearable friction. I fucked her like that, hard and fast, her body jolting with every impact.
“Sign it!” I commanded, each word matched by a deep thrust.
“Yes! Yes! Just don’t stop!”
The demand shattered my last shred of control. I hammered into her, Pressure climbed—fast, inevitable. Her cries pitched higher, breaking into sobs of pleasure as her body convulsed around me, a violent, clutching release. The sight of her struggling for some sense of control against the restraints that allowed her none tipped me over the edge. I came with a shout, my world narrowing to sensation and light, pouring myself into the condom as wave after wave of euphoria crashed through me.
For a long time, there was only silence, except for the two of us trying to catch air. I carefully lowered her legs, pulled out, and disposed of the condom. My hands trembled as I found the key on the nightstand and began unlocking the padded cuffs. The metal clicked, one after another.
Somewhere else in the house, the sound of a confused old millionaire muttering about came to my attention. I check the time and realize Bill needed his meds. The sound cut through whatever was left of my judgment. Duty didn’t knock; it barged in. My license felt like a thin card in my wallet, suddenly heavy.
When her wrists were free. Then her ankles. She rubbed the red marks slowly, watching me.
“I’ll call the lawyer in a moment,” I said, my voice drained. “Draw up the agreement. I expect you to hold to signing it.”
“I can always say I signed under duress.” She teased.
She sat up, stretching her limbs with a wince that looked more like satisfaction. She looked at me, completely spent, a strange intimacy hanging in the air between us.
I leaned in and kissed her, deep, my tongue exploring a mouth desperate for water. She leaned into it one hand finding the back of my neck.
When she pulled away, “Silvia,” she said softly. “My name is Silvia.”
A beat. “There’s something you should know—Bill wasn’t the one who hired me.”
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What begins as restraint meant to protect spirals into a quiet reckoning with power, secrecy, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive the aftermath. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #PsychologicalFiction #PowerAndConsent #LiteraryErotica #MoralDescent