The sounds filling the room are obscene. Skin slapping against skin. My broken gasps and whimpers. The wet slide of his cock pounding into me. His breathing, harsh and ragged.
One hand leaves my hip to press against my lower abdomen, right where I can feel him moving inside me. The pressure makes everything more intense. I'm so full I can barely breathe, stretched around him, impaled on his cock while my bound wrists keep me helpless.
"Please—" The word breaks from me before I can stop it.
"Please what?" He doesn't slow down. "Use your words."
"More." The admission costs me everything. "Please, Sir. More."
He doesn't respond with words. Just fucks me harder, faster, the force of him driving me into the mattress. His cock drags against my inner walls with every stroke, the friction building sensation that climbs higher and higher. I'm soaked, making the slide easier even as the stretch continues to burn in the best way.
His hand reaches around to find my clit. His fingers circle with brutal precision, adding another layer of sensation I can't escape.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. His cock driving deep, hitting that spot inside me with every thrust. His fingers working my clit with demanding pressure. The rope around my wrists. The blindfold. The burning in my ass from the flogger. My entire world narrows to sensation.
His fingers press harder, circling faster. The pressure inside me builds, tightens, coils into something almost painful in its intensity.
"Now, Simone."
The orgasm detonates through me. My inner walls clamp down on his cock, clenching in rhythmic pulses that I can't control. Pleasure floods every nerve, whiting out thought, stealing breath. I'm dimly aware that I'm crying out, that my whole body is shaking, that I'm coming harder than I ever have in my life.
And he doesn't stop. Just keeps fucking me through it, prolonging every spasm, dragging out the pleasure until I'm whimpering and boneless beneath him.
"Feel yourself squeezing my cock? This is real."
I can't respond. Can't do anything except feel. The aftershocks rippling through me. His cock still moving insideme, harder now, chasing his own release. The overstimulation that borders on too much but somehow isn't.
"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. Both hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as he buries himself deep one final time.
I feel him come. The hot pulse of his release flooding inside me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. He groans low and rough, his cock throbbing as he empties himself.
The sensation of him filling me—skin to skin, nothing between us—makes me shudder. Marking. Claiming. Making me his.
We stay locked together for a long moment, both breathing hard. I can feel him still inside me, softening slightly but not pulling out. His body heat against my back. The weight of his hands on my hips, gentling now but still possessive.
"Don't move."
He withdraws slowly, and I feel the immediate shift—empty, aching, and then the hot slide of his release starting to leak out of me. My face burns with the intimacy of it.
"Fuck." His voice is rough, satisfied. "Look at that. Dripping with my cum. Mine."
One hand spreads across my lower back, holding me in position while he watches. The possessiveness in the gesture makes me shudder.
Then I hear him move—water running, a drawer opening and closing. He's back moments later, warm wet cloth in hand, cleaning me with efficient thoroughness. No wasted movement. Just taking care of what's his.
He works methodically—cleaning between my thighs, wiping away the evidence of what we did, his fingers occasionally brushing over sensitized flesh that makes me jerk.
"Easy. Almost done."
The rope around my wrists loosens. His fingers work the knots with practiced efficiency, unwinding the column tie he created. Blood rushes back into my hands, bringing pins and needles that make me flex my fingers.
"Arms forward." He guides my hands in front of me, those strong hands massaging my wrists where the rope left faint red marks. "Numbness?"
"No, Sir." My voice is wrecked, barely more than a whisper.
He continues massaging, working circulation back into my hands with the same tactical precision he brought to everything else. His thumbs press into my palms, then up each finger. The simple touch grounds me, brings me back into my body after floating somewhere else entirely.
The blindfold comes off last. I blink against the low lighting, my eyes adjusting slowly. Luc's face comes into focus—serious, assessing, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Sweat gleams on his skin. His dark hair is disheveled. He looks as wrecked as I feel.
