It’s art. Admiration of form. Her form.
My naked, perspiring marionette twists on tiptoes, skin reddened to perfection, snarling, “Fuck!”
I circle. Step in. Nip her ear. “More?”
The delayed nod makes my heart thump.
Her gasp pierces my bedroom as I cinch the ceiling pulley, notch by notch. Ropes loop her succulent pierced orbs, criss-cross that soft expanse of belly before plunging, miasmic arousal staining the fibres.
I crouch. Inhale. Lick. Savour. “He doesn’t worship you like I do.”
Rope bites glistening flesh alongside my fluttering tongue. Her breath hitches. “No, Mistress.”
My mouth skims wetness. “Then be mine.”
