Your breasts are bound so tightly the cords bite into your skin, turning it a slow-creeping, searing rose. You writhe against the restraints as the slim vibrator strapped to your inner thigh throbs on its lowest pulse—enough to set every nerve ending ablaze.
A click echoes through the charged hush as the latch gives way. Sharp heels tap across polished wood, each step slicing into you. You press your lips against the gag, muffled gasps and half-formed pleas dying before they form. He perches at the head of the bed; the silky hem of his dress ghosts across your cheek, cool luxury against your overheated skin. His fingertip drags from the bare curve of your knee up to your inner thigh, the polished nail’s edge grazing—just enough to ignite a shudder.
“Hello, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice thick as smoke. He slides two fingers between your thighs, circling your swollen, throbbing clit with deliberate slowness. Each feather-light stroke sends tiny electric shocks radiating through your core. He leans in, adjusting the vibrator’s plate—suddenly, it flares hotter, pressing insistently into your wetness.
“Not a cum,” his voice low and warning, “without my say-so. Got it?”
With a swift motion, he rips away your gag. You bare your teeth against the pain and desperation, mute pleas trapped in your jaw. He straightens, feigning a pout.
“Here I am, all dressed up, and you can’t even see me. What a pity.”
His fingers pinch your nipple with precise cruelty—electric pain blossoms, and you arch, a cry swallowed by your own throat. Then he rises.
“Please, sir—don’t go,” you choke out as the heels click away.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he calls back, voice laced with promise.
He’s back before your pulse steadies, a heavy leather flogger coiled on his shoulder. “I won’t leave until I have every last drop of pleasure you can give me.”
The flogger snaps across your bound breasts—the crack flashing against your skin, sending heat rippling outward. You gasp, torso bucking. Another strike lands squarely on your nipple, a delicious agony that fuels your desire. You claw at the ropes; each futile tug only drives the cords deeper.
A third lash rains down, scorching both peaks. Pain and yearning blur into one overwhelming tide. The vibrator surges, its hum growing frantic. You tremble, every inch of you primed on the edge.
“Please, sir—may I cum?” you beg, voice ragged.
He tilts his head, studying you like a masterpiece. “Not yet. Hold it.” His command coils around you, tightening like steel.
“I can’t,” you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m too close.”
He exhales, almost affectionate. “Very well. But you owe me.”
With that, he watches you shatter—your body convulsing, release ripping through you in raw, shuddering waves. Your legs tremble, hips bucking on their own accord. As your climax ebbs away, he settles beside you, one hand lifting the vibrator from your thigh, the other smoothing back your damp hair. The blindfold drifts off; light floods your vision.
His face above you is gentle now, lips curving into a soft smile. He offers a chilled glass with a straw. “Apple juice,” he coos. You sip gratefully as he taps the ash from a lit cigarette.
“Remember,” he murmurs, voice silky, “you owe me.” That hint of wickedness flickers in his eyes. You nod, breath still coming in ragged gasps.
He leans forward, peeling the toy free, then presses a warm, damp cloth to your sore flesh, soothing every throbbing inch. Finally, he loosens the ropes around your breasts, and blood rushes back into your skin in a hot tide. Each knot falls away until you lie utterly spent, cleansed, and entirely his.
