The week that followed was a slow, exquisite torture. Natasha moved through her days like a woman possessed, her body no longer her own, her thoughts consumed by him. The silver lock pendant rested against her sternum, a constant reminder of her submission, its cool weight a benediction and a brand. She did not touch herself. She did not seek relief. She simply waited, her breasts growing heavier with each passing day, her nipples aching with a need that bordered on pain.

By Sunday night, she could barely breathe. Her breasts were so full that they strained against even the loosest of her blouses, the milk leaking through the fabric, leaving dark, damning stains that she could not hide. She had taken to wearing thick, dark fabrics, but even those could not conceal the swell of her chest, the way her nipples pressed against the cloth like desperate mouths seeking release. She pressed her palms against her breasts in the darkness of her room, feeling the heat, the fullness, the desperate need for his hands, his mouth, his permission.