Paper and Asphalt (Part 9)

The end of the week clung to you like heat.

Long hours, too many faces, the weight of everything you had held together pressed into your shoulders as you finally pulled into your usual spot.

The city had quieted around you, as if it too were holding its breath. Your fingers hovered over your keys in the ignition.

And then it began.

The sound.

Soft at first. That low, inescapable frequency curling out of your speakers like a silk noose. The same sound that once left you frozen, heart stuttering behind your ribs.

But this time, you didn’t freeze.

No breath hitched in your throat. No hand trembled.

Instead your lips twitched. Just slightly.

A smile. Fragile. Dangerous. Real.

Not because you weren’t afraid, but because the fear had changed shape.

It wasn’t running anymore. It wasn’t recoil. It was surrender laced in anticipation.

You let the sound fade, let the silence settle like smoke in your lungs. It didn’t soothe. It stalled- held you there, in the pause between knowing and stepping into it.

You cut the engine.

Stepped out of the car.

Your eyes moved first- sweeping the parking lot, the sidewalk, across the quiet street.

Nothing.

Empty.

You turned toward your building’s door, keys already in hand feeling resigned, half-convinced tonight was nothing more than a false alarm.

And then you saw me.

Not across the street.

Not where you expected.

I was leaning against my bike, parked just off to the side of your building- half in shadow, half lit by the failing glow of a streetlamp. 

Arms crossed.

Second helmet swinging from one hand.

Watching you.

I didn’t move.

You lifted your bag with one hand- simple, deliberate. Then you pointed, slow and certain, up toward your apartment.

A wordless message. You were going to drop your things.

You were coming back.

And I, still as stone, gave you one nod.

Approval. A silent yes.

Then you turned, without hesitation, and walked toward the door.

A few minutes later, the door to your building swung open.

And there you were.

Light from the street lamps caught you first- bare skin, dark fabric, the gleam of something intentional.

You stepped out like you belonged to the night now, not afraid of it. Not anymore.

I watched you cross the threshold, watched the sway of your hips, the calm control in each step.

Fuck.

How did you always look like that?

Like temptation tailor-made. Like something I could ruin in a thousand ways and still never get enough of.

There was confidence in you now- new, raw, still forming. In the way your chin lifted. In the way your eyes met mine across the space like you had already decided.

You didn’t wait for a signal.

Didn’t speak.

You came right up to me, slow and sure, and took the helmet straight from my hand.

Not a question.

Not a pause.

You slid it on, adjusted the strap, and tilted your head just enough to meet my eyes through the visor, “Ready?”

You had no idea, but this new found confidence of yours was running laps in my mind. 

I nodded once, “Let’s go,” and turned toward the bike.

The engine growled beneath us as we cut through the heart of the city.

Downtown blurred past in streaks of gold and shadow, the sun dragging its last breath across the skyline.

Glass buildings caught the light like fire. Streetlights blinked awake. The wind rushed around us- fast, free, untouchable.

Your arms were around me.

Tighter than before.

No question in your intent. No distance.

Just the thrum of your heartbeat pressed against my back and the scent of you tangled in leather and night.

We rode like that- silent and steady through the city that had once swallowed you whole.

But now, you were moving through it with me.

With purpose.

And when we pulled into my garage, the moment shifted again.

Familiar space. Familiar sound of the door closing behind us. My hands on the ignition. Your legs still wrapped around me until the engine died.

Then we dismounted. Together.

You moved with me in silence, boots tapping softly against concrete. The low hum of the elevator filled the space between us. Then the quiet click of the door unlocking.

We stepped inside.

And just as you thought you finally found your rhythm with me, it hit you instantly.

The smell.

Warm, rich, mouth-watering. Garlic, butter, slow-roasted something. Home, if home was allowed to taste like seduction.

You froze near the threshold, brows pulling in just slightly. Confused. Guarded.

“Why is there food?” you asked, slow, suspicious.

I turned, already peeling off my jacket, and gave you just enough of a smile to make your pulse skip.

“Well,” I said, crossing to the counter, “you’ve been working all day.”

I grabbed my phone, unlocked it, tilted it toward you- just enough for the screen to flash your location log. “And I can tell you skipped lunch.”

You stared.

I raised a brow. “What? You think I wouldn’t notice that? I’m literally tracking everything, remember?”

Then I tossed the phone onto the counter, leaned back against it, and met your eyes again.

“Besides, you’re not very good at hiding when you’re hungry.”

You followed me to the kitchen island, heels silent against the floor, gaze scanning everything with that careful curiosity.

And I saw it.

The faint narrowing of your eyes. The twitch in your lips as you tried not to let them part in surprise.

Because the food—

Seared duck breast, skin crisped to a perfect amber glaze, sliced clean across the grain. A bed of wild rice with roasted figs and toasted walnuts. Caramelized carrots curled at the edges, soaked in something you couldn’t quite place but knew it would taste expensive. A single bottle of red breathing beside two glasses already poured- not too much, not an assumption.

Just, prepared.

Waiting.

I pulled out your stool like it was nothing. Like I did this often. For anyone.

But you knew better.

You sat down slow, fingers curling around the edge of the seat like it might help you keep your composure. Your eyes dropped to the plate, then to my hands as I sat across from you.

The questions flickered behind your lashes, one after another- Why is he being nice now? Does he actually care? Does he do this for everyone? Did he really cook this?

Each one more intrusive than the last.

But the one that stuck, that hovered just beneath your skin- 

Is this another layer I hadn’t planned on?

You lifted your fork. Took one careful bite. And I watched you try not to react.

Your tongue paused on the flavor. Your jaw clenched once like restraint, like control, like the last thing you wanted was to give me the satisfaction.

I leaned back, wine glass in hand, watching you chew, swallow, pretend like your expectations had not just been rewritten.

And then I smiled- just enough to unsettle.

“Good?”

You didn’t answer.

The empty plate would do it for you.

After dinner, we moved to the living room- unspoken, effortless.

The lights dimmed low. The city outside blurring into a halo of gold through the tall windows. 

And that couch-

Black leather. Expansive. The kind of luxury that doesn’t try too hard to be seen. It swallowed you whole the moment you sat, soft and cool beneath your legs, the cushions sinking around you like it had memorized the shape of your body.

I took the far end, not touching.

Not yet.

Glass of wine in hand, arm slung over the backrest, I watched you settle- shoes off, posture looser now, your blouse hugging your frame like it knew what it was doing. You tucked your legs beneath you and leaned back, as if your body had finally decided it could breathe.

And we talked.

An hour passed. Unrushed. Easy.

You told me pieces. Small things. Work. A memory. Something about the woman at the cafe who always gets your order wrong and pretends not to care. I listened. I added little pieces of myself- curated, careful.

It felt normal.

Almost.

There was no pressure here, no threat.

Not in the way you had learned to expect.

But beneath it- beneath the comfort, the wine, the softness of the leather and the warmth in your limbs, was something else.

A hum.

A knowing.

Because normal was never really the point.

It was just the stage.

And I let you have it- for now.

Let you believe in the illusion of ease.

Because the longer you relaxed, the deeper you would sink when I took it away.

I watched you for a moment.

The way your body had softened into the leather, your legs tucked up beneath you, fingertips still resting on the curve of your wine glass. Your eyes hadn’t drifted to the clock once.

That was all I needed.

“How do you feel?” I asked, my voice low, even. “Rested? Not too full?”

You blinked, a slight pause before I added the final word, “Ready?”

Your breath caught.

Your lips parted just enough. Eyes widening, still not from fear- but from the weight of what was coming. The recognition.

You looked down. Back up. Inhaled slowly.

And in that breath, you knew the answer.

You weren’t exhausted anymore. You weren’t distracted, or guarded, or hungry for anything except this.

You were ready.

“Mhm,” you breathed, the sound barely audible.

But I heard it.

Good.

I stood without hurry.

Crossed the room in measured steps, toward the far wall where a piece of furniture waited- black oak, smooth and low, one drawer carved into its center. I set my empty wine glass down on top with a soft clink, then reached for the decanter and glass resting beside it. The whiskey poured slow, amber and quiet, into the low crystal glass.

On the left, I opened the chilled compartment and pulled out a single sphere of ice- perfectly clear, perfectly cold, and dropped it into the glass with a satisfying clink.

On the right, my fingers slid over the second drawer, sliding it open- quiet, practiced.

And from within, I pulled it out.

Silk rope, deep crimson, not bright, not vulgar.

I turned back to you, let the rope coil around my palm as I walked, and took a sip from the crystal glass. Each step deliberate.

And then, quiet as a spell, I spoke reciting from memory, “Tied and bound, at his mercy.”

I stopped in front of you, rope in hand, silence between us- your heartbeat wasn’t the only thing trembling.

I let the silence stretch between us, let the heat of it build as I uncoiled the rope slowly between my fingers. Smooth silk slipping over my knuckles like water.

Then I looked at you.

Really looked.

“You look awfully lovely tonight,” I said, voice smooth, weighted. “And that blouse,”

My eyes raked over the fabric stretched across your body, clinging in all the right places, light catching on the line of your collarbone.

“That blouse is working wonders on you.” I took another sip and set the glass down on the end table beside the couch.

You blinked, cheeks warming- but you didn’t look away.

“So,” I went on, stepping just a little closer. Your eyes looking up at me now as I stood just in front of where you sat, “I’ll give you a choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“Take it off now,” a pause, a smirk, “or risk me and my rope ruining it, and while you’re at it, take it all off.”

Your lips curled into the ghost of a laugh, soft and disbelieving. Not nervous. Not shy. Just alive- as if you couldn’t quite believe you were here, being spoken to like that, being seen like that.

And then you moved. Standing to meet my presence.

Fingers lifted to the hem of your shirt. You peeled it away, slow, revealing skin inch by inch. The kind of slow that wasn’t about seduction.

It was about control.

Yours.

You kept your eyes on mine the whole time. Steady. Certain. Not a challenge, but not submission either.

You lowered your pants. Your bra came next, unhooked with casual grace, dropped without a word.

Then your hands slid to the waistband of your lace thong.

But just as your thumbs tucked under, “No,” I said, quiet. Final. “Keep that on.”

You stilled.

Not because you didn’t want to obey- but because you didn’t expect to feel the thrill that shot through you at being stopped.

You had undressed yourself.

But I had still decided how far you would go.

And in that pause, in that single line of silk rope hanging loose between my hands- we both knew who was really in control.

I pushed in close.

Close enough to feel your breath catch.

The silk rope dangled from my left hand, but it was my right that moved- slow, sure, rising to the back of your neck. Fingers spreading across your skin, firm.

I drew you in gently, deliberately, until your mouth hovered just shy of mine. Not kissing. Not yet.

Just hovering.

The tension between us wound tight as wire.

And then I spoke- quiet, but the weight in my voice coiled like steel.

“If at any moment it’s too much,” I said, eyes locked to yours, “just say Paper.”

You blinked.

Then your lips curled, slow and sharp. Sass slipping into your voice like a blade of your own.

“A safeword? Now? Aren’t we past that?”

I didn’t smile.

My fingers flexed against the back of your neck- tightening, anchoring.

Not hard. Not hurting.

But serious.

Your breath faltered.

My voice dropped a fraction- cutting, quiet.

“Paper.”

A beat.

My grip firm, my tone harder now.

“Understand?”

The heat in your body didn't vanish- but something else slipped in behind it. A realization. The power might feel mutual, but it wasn’t. Not really.

And you nodded.

Small. Honest.

The rules weren’t there to protect you from me.

They were there to frame the experience of being undone, and just how deep we were about to fall.

And you had just agreed to it.

“Good.”

I didn’t need to say more.

I took your hands in mine- palms up, wrists bare between us at chest height. My fingers wrapped around yours, grounding, steady. And then the rope came into play.

Silk slid over your skin.

First one wrist.

Then the other.

I moved slowly, methodically, winding the red around your limbs like I was memorizing you with touch alone. The knots were deliberate- perfectly tight, snug enough to remind you they were there. Not cutting. Not cruel.

Just inarguable.

Then I drew your wrists together.

Not rushed.

Not asking.

Just done.

You felt it instantly, the shift. The way your arms now moved as one. The way that single cord turned you from something free into something held.

In one smooth motion, I raised your bound hands high over your head, above your line of sight.

My arm extended, my grip unrelenting. The rope didn’t bite. But it commanded.

You felt it now- not just the rope.

Me.

The physicality of it. The sheer scale of what you were up against. My frame folding over yours, the heat of my body now undeniable.

Then without a word- I slipped one foot behind yours.

Planted.

Waiting.

And with a subtle shift forward, I pressed into you.

Not with force.

Just pressure.

But with your arms bound and stretched high, the angle wrenched further, your shoulders straining, the tension biting deeper with nowhere for your body to go but back.

Your balance broke.

You stumbled- tripped over my foot, and fell.

Helplessly.

Leather met your spine. Your legs folded beneath you. Arms stretched, caught between gravity and command, your wrists tugged taut above.

Not in pain.

But reminded.

Reminded that you were not in control anymore.

Not of your hands.

Not of your body.

Not of what came next.

And I watched it all.

Still standing. Still silent.

Letting you feel what it meant to be placed. Forced.

Owned.

You were still catching your breath when I reached down and took the tail end of the rope trailing from your wrists.

Your eyes followed me, wide, alert, as I moved with purpose- guiding that end beneath the couch, to a hitch embedded and hidden in the frame. Secure. Intentional.

And then, with a soft flick of tightened silk, your arms were locked. 

Pinned above your head, fully stretched. Back forced against the leather.

You tested the give instinctively- your shoulders tugging, spine arching, but the rope held. It didn’t bite, but it didn’t yield either.

And I didn’t wait.

In one swift, practiced motion, I stepped to the back of the couch and pressed down.

The whole frame shifted.

Leather moved. The back collapsed, slow and smooth on its hinge- transforming your seat into something far more useful.

A flat plane of black leather stretched beneath you now. A bed, of sorts.

Your eyes flicked up at me.

And then, you smirked.

“This is the nicest futon I’ve ever seen, but I never expected a grown man like you to own one,” you said, mocking, sharp, like a spark thrown into gasoline.

I paused.

Tilted my head just slightly.

“Careful,” I murmured, my voice barely more than breath, “you think now’s the time to make fun?”

But I smiled.

And that- that was the warning.

I stepped to the edge of the couch, crouched, and took your right ankle in my hand.

Warm skin. Slight tremble.

I said nothing as I wrapped the next length of rope around you- tight enough to restrain, soft enough not to bruise. The hitch under the corner took the tension easily.

Your leg was pulled down.

Outward.

Then the left.

Same motion. Same precision.

You could feel it happening- how every piece of you was being claimed, one knot at a time. Until finally, your arms were bound above your head, wrists together. Your legs held wide, anchored to either end.

Your body stretched across black leather like an offering.

And I stood at the edge.

Still.

Silent.

Watching you realize that this was not a game anymore.

This was structure. Ritual.

You had just become the center of it.

I turned from you without a word.

Back to the drawer.

The same one that had birthed the red silk that now held you open, waiting. This time, I drew out a small wooden box. Palm-sized. Smooth. Unassuming.

You watched every movement now. Eyes wide, but not afraid. Not entirely.

Your confidence had grown- evident in the way you stared, in how you no longer shied away from my gaze, how you dared to smirk, to speak freely even while bound.

And I saw it.

I liked it.

“Let’s see just how far that confidence of yours goes,” I said softly, almost like a compliment.

I returned to the head of the couch- slow, measured.

Standing above you now, your arms pinned between the frame and my thighs. The heat of me hovering just inches from your face. The soft brush of leather and skin where your hands were bound.

Then, with a casual flick of my wrist, I opened it. The small wooden box.

A row of matches inside, neatly aligned. Each one ready. Patient.

I pulled one out.

Held it between two fingers like something sacred.

Then, with a sharp, deliberate motion, I struck it against the grit on the box’s underside.

The scratch of sulfur hissed through the room. A single flame leapt to life- bright, sudden, warm.

I reached to the end table to my left, and grabbed one of the many candles I had scattered around my place. But this one was different from the others, this was a tall ivory candle, simple and intentional, not a scented one to fill the air like the rest.

I tilted the match to the candle’s wick. It caught easily, the flame curling up with slow, hungry elegance. Light pooled across your chest, casting soft gold against your ribs, your throat, the line of tension in your stretched arms.

And I looked down at you.

Silent. Steady.

The flame danced, quiet and steady, as I lifted the candle just over your bound wrists.

You watched it- wide-eyed, breath shallow as your wrists still pinned tight between my thighs, your body stretched helpless across black leather.

The first tilt was slight.

Almost nothing.

But it was enough.

A single drop gathered at the lip, glowing, molten.

It hung there for a breathless second- suspended, trembling before it fell.

Tap.

Right below the rope at your left wrist.

Your body flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.

Saw the way your fingers clenched in response. Saw the way your breath stuttered through parted lips.

Then another drop.

Lower, closer to the soft bend of your elbow.

Drip.

The heat wasn’t unbearable. Not yet.

But it was sharp- sudden. Like a warning whispered too close to the ear.

Each drop carried intention.

Drip.

Each one demanded your attention.

I moved slowly, letting gravity do the work, tilting the candle just enough each time to birth another bead of fire.

Down your arm.

Past the inside of your bicep.

Drip.

Right across your collarbone.

Your spine arched, instinctive and electric.

The wax hardened almost instantly against your skin, a thin shell of heat turned cool. And your breath came faster now, eyes flicking up to meet mine in disbelief, in need.

Because you had not expected it to feel like this.

You had not expected the pain to pull pleasure to the surface.

But it was starting to.

I saw it in your throat, the way it bobbed.

In your thighs, the way they tensed, unable to close.

And I smiled.

“Too much?” I asked.

Not kind.

Not curious.

Condescending- drawled low with the kind of smirk you could feel before you saw it.

You didn’t answer.

So I leaned in.

Forward, just slightly.

But enough.

Enough to press your bound wrists higher, deeper, until they brushed up the inside of my thigh. Trapped there. Helpless. And now- aware.

You felt the heat of me.

The tension.

The hard, growing proof of what this was doing to me- what you were doing to me.

And then the candle moved again.

Tilting, patient.

Drip.

The next drop landed just above the curve of your breast. Then another. A slow trail grazing down the swell- hot, deliberate, cruel.

You sucked in a breath.

Tensed.

Your hips shifted, instinct trying to follow the fire, to arch into it, to understand it.

But it was your hands that gave you away.

Bound though they were, they twitched and moved- not to escape.

To explore.

You shifted them, subtly, just enough to feel more of me.

To press into the thick, throbbing heat between my legs.

And then—

I dropped the candle lower.

Right above your nipple.

The flame’s heat licked the skin just before the wax did.

You winced, the pain sharp and sudden.

A whimper slipped past your lips. Not a scream.

But a sound that broke you open all the same.

And I didn’t move back.

Didn’t stop.

I just looked down at you- eyes cold, amused.

“Did I say you could touch?”

My voice was quieter now. Firmer.

“Keep your hands still.”

But your hands had no choice.

They were still bound. Still pinned. Still trapped against the hard line of my thigh.

And now- now you could feel it.

My cock, pulsing against your wrists, growing impossibly harder. Throbbing with every breath you took, every sound you made. I didn’t need to touch you to feed off your reaction.

You were touching me.

And the power of that?

The way I could punish you for it- or not?

That made me ache.

Still holding the candle, I dragged it lower- slowly tracing the line down the center of your stomach. A single drop fell just above your navel, making your body twitch. I stopped just above the lace that guarded your waist, just before the wax could mark what was still mine to uncover.

Then I stepped back.

Just a little.

Not out of mercy- but to make you feel the distance.

To remind you who dictated when the heat came.

I reached for the crystal glass resting on the side table- cold, beaded with condensation. Lifted it to my lips.

“Water break,” I said, winking as I drank. The smirk in my voice was impossible to miss.

You shifted on the leather beneath you, and that’s when it hit- again.

The wax.

Cooling now.

Dry, but clinging to your skin in cracked rivers of white wax.

Every tiny movement made it pull- pinch.

Your shoulders, your chest, your sides, each motion a whisper of pain, a reminder that I had marked you.

That every piece of your body was being shaped by what I gave, and what I withheld.

“You know,” I circled around the couch, my footsteps slow and heavy on the floor, “the heat against your skin is always so much fun.”

You turned your head to follow me, breathing faster.

“But you know what’s even more fun?”

I dropped down at the other end of the couch, right between your bound, open legs.

The space you could not close.

Could not defend.

I brought my drink to my lips- this time pulling the single sphere of ice between my teeth, my tongue wrapping to pull it in.

And then I lowered.

Brought my mouth to your lace, lips pressing directly into the center of your heat.

The cold hit instantly.

You gasped- sharp and high, your hips jerking upward as if escape was possible.

It wasn’t.

The chill of the ice against your clit through the thin lace was unbearable and perfect.

A sudden rush of sensation that made you squirm, strain against the ropes. Made the wax crack harder against your skin. Made your mind stutter.

And I didn’t move.

I lingered.

Breathing ice and heat into you, while you fought not to fall apart.

For what felt like hours and seconds at once, I devoured you. I consumed you.

Not rushed.

Not rough.

Hungry.

Tongue slow, then fast, then circling right where you ached most- again and again and again.

Through the lace.

Because I had not given you permission to be bare.

And still, you responded.

Your hips rising, restrained by rope.

Your breath hitched, cried out, moaned into the low ceiling like you couldn’t hold it back anymore.

I let my hands grip your thighs, holding you in place- not because I needed to, but because I wanted to feel every tremble that rolled through you.

The lace grew wetter with every pass of my tongue.

From the ice.

From my mouth.

From you.

Until it wasn’t just damp- it was dripping.

Your thong clung to you, soaked, ruined. Soaked lace between your legs, sticking to you, slick with everything I had earned.

And still, I didn’t stop.

Not until you were quivering beneath me, held wide and helpless, your body strung out on tension and release, wax and want.

I pulled back.

I rose up between your legs, and you saw it- my bottom lip glistening with you.

With your surrender.

I kept eye contact as I bit into it soft, thoughtful.

Then slowly, lazily, I ran my tongue along the corner of my mouth, tasting the mess you’d made of me.

Savoring it. Savoring you.

I reached behind me.

Pulled out a small knife from my back pocket- compact, black-handled, the blade catching the low light as I flicked it open with a soft click.

Your breath caught.

But I didn’t strike.

I brushed it.

Cool steel slid under the lace at your hip, gliding along the damp waistband like a whisper.

I met your gaze again.

Held it.

Then- a quick snick.

The fabric parted clean.

I moved to the other side.

Another gentle sweep of the blade. Another soft slice.

Your thong fell off your skin as I pulled it from under you.

I leaned in, close to your ear, my voice smooth as velvet and laced with quiet pride.

“Good girl.”

My fingers dragged lightly over the soaked remains, a smile curling on my lips.

“You left it dripping for me.”

I let the ruined lace slip from my fingers.

It dropped next to you- drenched, delicate, still clinging to the scent of what I had taken from you.

And then came the sound- leather groaning, the slow unfastening of a belt, the whisper of fabric falling as I freed myself.

My cock was hard, flushed, thick with need.

The weight of everything you had given me- every sound, every tremble had led to this.

I moved over you.

One hand braced over your shoulder, the other guiding the tip of me to your slick entrance.

I didn’t enter.

Not yet.

I rubbed.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Letting you feel just how close I was.

Letting your body respond- tensing, opening, aching.

“Tied and bound,” I murmured, voice low and thick with heat, “at his mercy, remember?”

Your eyes widened.

You thought I had already claimed everything there was.

You were wrong.

I saw the realization bloom in your face- that this was not over. That I was not done.

Not even close.

I reached next to you, picked up your lace thong from where it lay soaked on the leather.

Held it before your mouth.

And then- without waiting, I pushed it between your lips.

Wet, warm, yours.

“My mercy,” I growled.

And I thrusted.

Deep.

Full.

All at once.

Your scream was immediate- muffled by the mess in your mouth, the fabric pressing down against your tongue.

You moaned, twisted, but the ropes held.

I didn’t slow.

Didn’t falter.

I drove into you again. And again. Relentless. My eyes widening, filling with a fierce desire.

Each thrust claiming more than the last. Your body helpless, bound, open, breaking beneath me.

And I watched it all.

Listened to every sound you tried to make and couldn’t.

Because even your cries now belonged to me.

I kept thrusting.

Your body, still bound and stretched wide beneath me, took every inch—muffled cries soaked into the lace I’d stuffed in your mouth, your eyes locked on mine, pleading and trembling and burning.

And then I felt it.

The shift.

The way your muscles clenched around me.

How your breath hitched, broke, how your thighs pulled tight against their restraints, fighting the pleasure you couldn’t stop- didn’t want to.

You were unraveling.

Falling apart beneath me.

And I didn’t stop.

I pushed harder.

Deeper.

Until your body convulsed- loud and desperate and completely mine, your climax crashing through you in waves. Your mouth opened in a cry you couldn’t voice, soaked lace muffling every sound, your entire body trembling from the inside out.

And that- that sight, that feeling of watching you come undone while tied down, filled, broken open beneath me, that was what pushed me over the edge.

I cursed under my breath, voice ragged, my hands gripping your thighs harder, my pace losing all mercy as the heat built, sharp and wild.

And then I was there.

Buried deep.

Letting go.

Filling you with everything I had- warm, heavy, endless.

Your body still fluttering around me, milking every drop, as if even your pleasure obeyed me.

I stayed there.

Inside you.

Claiming you from the inside out.

And there was no going back.

 

 

-Gambit