Sleep surrendered us to daylight in slow filaments: amber loft-light dissolving into watery Toulouse sun, kettle hiss morphing into pigeons on the eaves.
Eva still dozed when I planned the afternoon—thumb idly scrolling a mental inventory of toys in the locked side closet. She had whispered—half-dream, half-confession—that she sometimes imagined being ridden by sensation, muscles too weak to flee, pleasure too vast to corral.
I thought of the Sybian: a low, saddle-shaped engine that speaks in rumble and quake, the colour of gunmetal and just as honest. I bought it years ago from a retiring Domme who swore by the duet of horsepower and surrender.
Today it would sing for Eva.
She woke to the smell of coffee laced with orange peel. Eyes hazy but bright.
“Color?” I asked while setting the tray on the quilt.
“Morning-green,” she croaked, then sipped. “Something’s brewing behind that smile.”
“Accurate.” I thumbed foam from her upper lip. “Sybian session. If you choose yellow at any point, I’ll dial speed back or pause. Red ends the ride, no apology required.”
She nodded, pulse flickering at her throat. “May we… keep the blindfold?”
“If you want deeper inside your body, yes.”
“I do.”
We showered—citrus soap, peppermint shampoo that left her scalp tingling. I braided her damp hair into a single rope down her back; it would keep sweat-slick strands from tangling in machinery.
Down the stairwell, basement air clung cooler, scented now with silicone polish and faint motoroil—telltale from my morning prep. The Sybian sat centre-mat, rubber base secured by four suction disks, power cable sneaking to a surge-protected outlet. I’d chosen the contoured attachment: ridged shaft plus broad pad to hug the clit.
Eva’s inhale warped into a soft oh. She circled the machine the way felines circle unfamiliar furniture—curious, reverent.
I tethered a padded cuff around each ankle, clipping them to floor-rings just behind the saddle so her knees would straddle wide. No wrist bondage this time; arms would be free to catch balance or slap the mat if dizziness struck.
Blindfold applied—same aubergine lambskin, still smelling faintly of last night’s tears. When darkness claimed her, her back straightened, shoulders squaring as though her own bones remembered parade rest.
“Mount,” I said. Voice inside velvet.
She swung a leg. The attachment met slick folds, only body-warm from ambient air. She settled forward slowly until all weight pressed into the machine and the shaft eased inside inch by inch. A low tremor rippled through her thighs.
“Color?”
“Green… deep green.”
I knelt behind, palms skimming along her flanks, grounding. Her flesh was gooseflesh-cool under loft hoodie she still wore. I slid the fabric upward, gathering it beneath her breasts, exposing torso to basement chill. Nipples pebbled almost immediately.
Sybian controls are analog—no digital cruft—just two rotary dials: vibration and rotation. I started vibration at 15 %, rotation at zero. Motor hummed, more felt than heard, sending subsonic ripples through rubber into her pelvis.
Eva’s breath hitched. The blindfold moved with tiny cheek twitches—eyes likely wide behind leather. Hands braced on the mat. Hips rocked unconsciously, chasing gradient of pleasure.
“Keep still,” I warned.
She froze, muscles quivering from the act of non-movement. I raised vibration to 25 %. The hum deepened—like distant thunder heard through a cellar door. Her clit pressed into the broad silicone pad; I saw pelvic floor muscles pulse in minute concentric waves.
“Ask before climax,” I reminded.
She nodded, throat emitting a huffed yes.
To magnify the inner quake I layered outer stimuli: first warm coconut oil drizzled over shoulders, tracing between shoulder blades, dripping down either side of spine. Oil’s scent—summer clouds and sunscreen nostalgia—contrasted the industrial motor-smell. My fingers painted wide swirls, then pinch-rolled skin until blood surfaced rose-pink.
Eva sighed long, each exhale vibrating where machine met flesh. I flicked both nipples. She startled, hips jerking—Sybian punished movement by grinding deeper. A moan tore free.
I dialled vibration to 40 %. The floor under my knees tremored now. Copper piping overhead rattled faintly, resonant frequency flirting with chaos.
She choked: “Mistress, I— may I—?” Words splintered.
“Hold.” I let syllables hang five seconds—long enough for desperation to crystallise—then: “Denied.”
Her cry curved into cellar shadows, friction against cinderblock turning it guttural. Chest rose and fell like bellows over stoked coals.
I engaged rotation to 10 %. The internal shaft began a slow corkscrew. Eva’s whole torso rippled forward; hands clawed at mat.
“Hands behind head,” I ordered.
She obeyed—interlacing fingers just above nape—which arched back, offering breasts to the cool air. The stretch elongated abdominal muscles, intensifying core contact with the saddle.
I crouched in front, close enough that her knees bracketed my hips. I let warm breath ghost one nipple, then the other. No lick, no bite—just breath. Her skin tried to rise into it but found emptiness.
Vibration 55 %. Rotation 20 %. The Sybian’s note climbed half an octave—industrial lullaby morphing into hungry turbine.
Moisture streamed down the contoured attachment, dripping onto base plate, then mat. Each droplet sounded like iodine in a quiet hospital: plink, plink—sterile punctuation to filthy need.
“Please—please, Mistress, please let me come.”
“No.” My voice held julep-cool calm. “Thank me.”
“Thank you… for denying me.” Her words broke on a sob; blindfold soaked another teardrop dark.
I thumbed her lower lip, collecting salt. Licked it. Tastes like Atlantic spray on a winter ferry ride, I thought.
I inched vibration to 70 %. Rotation 35 %. The motor note turned snarling, low-frequency rumble merging with high tremor. Eva’s arms trembled; elbows wavered outward but she fought to maintain pose. Sweat atomised at her hairline, scent sharp as crushed dill.
Her breath lost cadence—gasp-gasp-gasp—like a kite in gusty sky. Inner thighs quivered, calves flexed hard, toes curling into mat ridges. Pelvic rocking began micro-fractures of control.
“Color?”
“Green—bright— but—oh—God—close—”
“Ask.”
“Permission—Mistress—I beg—may I— please—”
Pause. I adjusted nothing. Let anticipation bruise second after second into her nerve endings. Basement seemed to tilt; maybe that was her internal gyroscope failing.
“Denied.”
She screamed—feral, throat-raw. Sound ricocheted off corrugated ceiling baffles, then dropped into a hush so absolute I could count dust motes in the LED beam.
Sybian kept thundering. I slipped two fingers between silicone ridge and swollen labia, cradling clit lightly—extra node of vibration. She convulsed but orgasm still withheld by mind’s thin dam
“Ready to be merciful?” I asked, surprising myself with the gentleness.
“Please—please—need—break me—please.”
“Very well,” I whispered.
Vibration 90 %. Rotation 50 %. My fingers pinched clit, kneading with steady tempo. Whole machine bucked beneath her like tectonic plate shift.
“Count down from five.”
“F-fi—five—f-four—”
Each number rose an octave.
“Three—two—”
Voice went supersonic, inaudible edges.
“One—”
“Come.” The single syllable detonated.
Orgasm hit like freight collision. Thighs clamped against Sybian, body folding as if gut-punched, then arching full mis-shapen bow. Sound ripped from her—a raw, unmetered wail—half terror, half rapture. Internal muscles fluttered in seismic sequence; I felt each quake against my hand like heartbeats.
I maintained speed through the crest; second climax erupted almost immediately, higher-pitched scream, tears flooding now. Rotation brought shaft against every inner wall, milking aftershocks until she collapsed forward, forehead hitting my shoulder.
I killed power. Silence slammed—ears rang with ghost hum. Machine ticked cooling metal.
I eased the blindfold off. Pupils monster-wide, lashes wet. Her cheeks gleamed with sweat-tear mosaic; chest heaved as if lungs trying to exit rib cage.
“Color?”
She smirked—wrecked angel smile. “Northern-lights green.”
I chuckled, easing her off saddle; attachment exited with wet pop. Legs failed; I caught her, guiding onto mat. Quick pulse check—110 and falling.
Warm microfiber blanket, silver-grey, replaced the Sybian’s cold absence. I coaxed her to sip electrolyte water citrus-mint. Her throat convulsed three tiny swallows; scalp glistened salt.
Kneeling behind, I massaged calves, working lactic acid knots, then hamstrings, glutes—each muscle group flushed under knead. She sighed broken chords, language mislaid.
Sybian base still vibrated faint residual like a sleeping beast; scent of heated silicone drifted, mixing with cloves (from yesterday’s cuffs), coconut, and Eva’s own iron-sweet arousal.
I stroked hair‐braid, now unraveled, strands glued to neck. Whispered: “You rode the hush and made it sing.”
She laughed, hoarse. “It sang? Sounded like demolition to me.”
“Demolition can be melody.” I pressed lips to her temple. “You were symphonic.”
Thirty minutes later, calves steady, blanket wrapped toga-style, she inspected the dormant machine—kneeling this time in curiosity, not submission.
“I felt every bolt in my spine,” she said, tapping casing. “But also… flying.”
I raised brow; flight talk verboten unless she invited it. She winked. “Today you may mention altitudes.”
“Altitudes indeed,” I smiled. “Mach-zero, yet the body broke sound barriers.”
She blushed, pride swirling with post-scene serenity.
We disinfected the attachment, coiled cords, peeled suction pads, restoring basement to night-ready emptiness. Above, loft windows caught dusk turning rooftops rose-gold.
As we climbed stairs hand-in-hand, Sybian shut in closet, I felt the city’s heartbeat join ours—diesel, scooters, church bell six-o-five—and knew tomorrow another map awaited: new borders migrating across skin, new engines humming beneath the hush.
