“What happens when I do this, hm?”

She lets out a whimper, her mouth opening wide, faltering along the way. 

“I want an answer, pet. Now.”

She bites down on her lip, pausing to try and take a deep breath. “I feel it down there, Sir. I… I know I’m getting wet.”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling at her predicament. “And if I twist a little bit, what then?”

She moans, her back arching from the bed. “Please, please touch my pussy, Sir!”

“Oh, not a chance, little one. I’m having fun with this. I love when you squirm for me, so I’ll enjoy it for as long as I see fit.”

He tugs until she’s tight, stiff and trembling, then runs the backs of his nails down the sides of her breasts. The skin prickles all the way from her ribs to her collarbone: she jerks and gasps when he finds her nipple again and flicks.

All five fingertips circle the peak and slowly spread apart: stroking her, soothing her, letting the skin slowly start to relax. She feels a tiny bit of relief, thinking maybe he’s about to move on, but disappointment too. All that focus and attention on one place is powerful: she never thought she could be controlled so effectively with just one hand, and nowhere near her pussy.

Then his hand slides up to her throat.

“S-sir,” the word comes frantically, but he’s not gripping tight, just… holding. His palm molds to her and his thumb and finger rest just behind the corners of her jaw, soft but undeniable.

“Tell me again what’s happening to your pussy, girl,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

It’s fucking gushing, that’s what’s happening. “Uh. Sir. It’s wet because y-y-youOH!” He’s finally taken his mouth to her breast, rolling her nipple between lip and tongue, pulling back to puff a little air and watch it tighten up again so fast it aches.

“It’s wet because I’m playing with my property,” he finishes for her, his lips brushing again and again against her as he speaks. “Just one tiny piece of my property, albeit a flawless one. Do you like it when I play with the things I own, pet?”

“YES, Sir,” she says, arching to try to get her breast into his warm mouth again, but he chuckles as he pulls back and gives her another flick.

“What did you want me to do with that pussy again?”

It’s a trap, of course it’s a trap, but what is she going to do? “Please touch it. Please!”

“What will you do for me if I agree to touch your wet, warm, needy, throbbing pussy right now, girl?”

It pours out of her: promises, bargains, pleading and cajoling. She won’t touch for a week. She’ll touch every hour for a week. He can fuck her in any hole, use her, punish her, rent her out and watch. She’ll use her body in any way he pleases, go naked, go belted, go collared, go anywhere he orders her if he’ll please just touch…

The tiniest fraction of tightness on her throat, and she understands. Her mouth clicks shut.

“I’m going to touch you now–because I choose to, not because you are particularly convincing–but rest assured I will hold you to each and every one of those, pet. One at a time, thoroughly, and at length. Understand?”

“Always, Sir,” she whispers.

When his hand finally slides up each side of her velvety, bare lips, touching her pussy without a hint of penetration or pressure on her clit, the noises that come from her throat are kittenish and desperate. He takes his fingers up and down, again and again, drawing closer and closer to her inner lips, and then withdraws–

Only to land flat with a sharp, wet smack.

Convulsing, clenching, edging, crying out from the shock more than the pain, she wonders if he was taking notes or what.



It’s almost infuriating to know that he’s doing this with a single finger. That you’re writhing and moaning and arching from one damn finger. 

But it’s not just that finger, see. It’s the fact that you gave him this power. That you want this. That you’re restrained and fuck knows how much he’s teased you leading up to this. 

And that is all nothing but arousing. 

It wasn’t just that she was teased leading up to this; it was that he made you tease yourself. Made you walk around in those boots and those stockings all day, sans panties, his classed-up little secret whore. Made you come back to the room and tear off your dress, tie your own ankles to the table, and frantically fuck your own hand as you waited for him to arrive. You knew your job was to edge ten times before he arrived. After the whole day of blushing near-exposure, getting THERE wasn’t the problem, it was keeping yourself from going over.

And then he finally walked in, casual as can be, and saw you sweating and squirming on your back against the hard wood of the table. You’d ripped holes in the nylon of your tights, hand scrabbling at your hip as you tried desperately to hold yourself where he wanted you, and your body was slick with sweat. You looked up at him, a mixture of need and resentment and hazy arousal in your eyes.

“Ten times, girl?” he asked quietly.

You never could lie to him. “I lost count. Sir.”

A loop of cotton rope around your wrists. A smooth, strong pull downward, your wrists lashed to the table before you could breathe. He pushed that one finger in your whimpering mouth to let you wet it.

And then, only then, did he really start to make you writhe.