I thumb her clit, hard, fast, enough to make her cry out. She nods harder, panting now, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. “You want to cum, little spider?”
“Yes—please—I?—”
I slap her clit, just once. The sound is sharp, a stinging rebuke to her desire. She sobs. Beautiful.
“You can’t,” I growl. “Not until you’ve earned it. Not until you beg properly. Not until you tell me why you need me. Why no one else will ever touch you.” Her breath shudders. Her hands tremble. “Say it.”
“Because I’m yours,” she chokes out. “Because no one else can have me—because—because you’re the only one who—who?—”
“Who what?”
“Who knows how to break me,” she sobs.
I grin against her skin. There she is. My perfect little sinner. “Good girl,” I whisper, dragging my tongue over her again, faster now, harder, but still not enough. She sobs louder. She grinds her hips. She’s so fucking close.
“Don’t cum,” I snap, gripping her thighs tight. She freezes. “Not until I say.”
Her body shakes. Her hands claw at the couch. Her breath stutters. She’s teetering. And she’s waiting for me to let her fall. But I won’t. Not yet. Not until she begs me like her life depends on it.
Not until she screams for me and only me. Because the other one might be watching. But I’m the one who owns her. And I’m going to make her prove it. Again. And again. And again.
Her thighs quiver under my hands. Her breath is a trembling thing, cracking under the weight of how badly she needs this. How badly she needs me.
“Please,” she whispers, her voice small, wrecked, already slipping toward the edge.
I slide my palm up her belly, slow, controlling, savouring the little twitch she gives when my thumb brushes under her ribs. She’s too sensitive. She’s perfect like this—strung out, begging, dripping, desperate enough to say anything I want.
“Get on your knees,” I murmur against her skin.
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want to obey—because her legs barely work. I slap her thigh. The sound cracks through the room. “Now.”
She scrambles, panting as she shifts off the couch and sinks to her knees in front of me, wide-eyed, flushed, falling apart. I grip her jaw and tilt her chin up. “You remember your rules?”
She nods frantically.
“Say them.”
Her lips tremble. “I don’t cum unless you say?—”
I tighten my grip on her throat, just enough to feel the frantic gallop of her pulse. She gasps. “Start again.”
“I don’t cum unless you say.”
Tears lace her lashes. Her thighs press tight together. I drag them apart with my boot, grinding my sole against her bare pussy, she jolts. A sharp, broken sound spills from her throat as the rough leather meets her hot dripping pussy. I push harder. Her breath stutters. Her hips rock. I lift her chin, force her to look at me.
“You’ll hold it until I say,” I whisper. “You’ll cry if you have to. You’ll beg until your voice cracks. And you’ll thank me for every second I keep you on the edge.”
Her moan shatters through her lips. “Thank you,” she whimpers.
“Good girl.”
I grind my boot against her, slow and cruel, until she’s biting her fist to keep from sobbing. Her pussy soaks the leather, slick smearing across the toe of my boot, dripping down to the floor beneath her. She’s trembling so hard she can’t stay upright without me. I let her lean against my leg as I reach into the drawer.
Clamps. Wax. Rope.
The scent of the candle oil cuts through the room like it already knows where it’s going. I lift one of the clamps to her lips. “Kiss it.”
She does. I thread the cold metal over one nipple, tightening until she yelps, until her thighs snap closed, until her head falls back.
