Your body is limp, spent, soaking the sheets—still pulsing from the force of your orgasm. But there's no reprieve. No quiet lull or gentle undoing.
Not tonight.
"Stay there,"he orders, voice low and raw now.
You hear him tear off the glove, toss the toy aside. The mattress shifts beneath his weight as he climbs over you—pressing you down into the sheets with his chest, not to soothe... but to reclaim.
"You thought I was done with you?" he murmurs against your ear, voice dark and thick with need. "No, BabyGirl. That was just your first lesson tonight."
He unclips the cuffs one at a time—slow, intentional—then flips you onto your back.
You gasp, blindfold still on, wrists aching but free, body too overwhelmed to move.
But that doesn't matter, He moves you.
Hands rough and worshipful, spreading your thighs wide, pushing your knees up until you're laid out and open—just for him. Your wrists fall beside your head, loose but obedient.
Your breath hitches.
"Look at you,"he says, one hand wrapping gently around your throat, thumb resting on your pulse. "Wrecked. Ruined. And you still want more."
You nod.
"Words."
"Yes, Sir. Please. Please take me."
He removes the blindfold slowly, letting you blink up at him—his face flushed, jaw tight, eyes dark with pride and hunger and something dangerously close to reverence.
"Good girl."
Then he takes.
Not gentle.
Not slow.
This round isn't about control—it's about claiming.
His hips snap forward, burying himself deep in one thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your hands reach for him—fingers digging into his back, your legs wrapping around his waist.
He growls.
"Keep your hands on the headboard."
You obey.
And he drives into you—again. And again. A rhythm that steals your thoughts, replaces them with nothing but heat and surrender and him.
He speaks through his teeth.
"You're mine."
"You come when I say."
"You take every inch like the perfect little toy you are."
You're crying again. From the overstimulation, the overwhelming fullness, the way he hits exactly where you need it most.
You whisper his name over and over—like a prayer, like surrender.
And when he feels your walls flutter again—tight and desperate—he grits out:
"Don't you dare come yet."
You scream.
He slows down. Pulls almost all the way out.
"You'll hold it until I come. Do you understand me?"
"And then I'll let you break."
"Yes, Sir,"you sob. "I'll hold it—I promise, I'll hold it."
"That's my good girl."
His pace slows—not out of mercy, but because he's savoring you.
Savoring the way your body trembles under his.
Savoring the stretch, the heat, the way your walls flutter around him and threaten to pull him under.
"Hold it,"he warns again. "Don't you dare finish until I do."
You're biting your lip. Breathing ragged. Every muscle in your body is screaming for release, but you obey.
Because he told you to.
He wraps one hand around your throat again—not to choke, but to anchor you.
Ground you.
Own you.
His other hand snakes beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher as he shifts deeper, rougher, the angle perfect and cruel.
"Look at you,"he pants, sweat beading at his temple. "Holding on so tight. Just for me."
"Yes, Sir," you whisper, voice a broken sob."Only for you."
"That's right."
He leans down, lips brushing yours—but he doesn't kiss you.
He hovers.
Denies.
Even here.
Because the kiss?Just like your orgasm? Has to be earned.
And then—
His hips stutter.
His grip tightens.
You feel it—his body coiled and close to the edge.
"Now,"he groans, voice a snarl, eyes locked on yours."Come with me."
And that's all it takes.
You shatter.
This time, it's not just your body. It's your soul.
You come with a cry so raw, so visceral, you swear it leaves your lungs empty.
He spills into you with a growl, riding it through with deep, punishing thrusts—holding you down, owning every part of your surrender.
The moment pulses between you, breathless and heavy, skin on fire and hearts pounding in unison.
He collapses beside you—not away from you.
One arm wraps around your waist, dragging you into his chest as if to say: You're mine. Still. Always.
He brushes damp hair from your forehead, voice rough but soft now.
"You did so good for me, BabyGirl."
"So perfect. So obedient."
You curl into him, boneless and blissed, still gasping through the aftershocks. His handstrokes up and down your spine, soothing the chaos he created.
But even in this peace, you know.
He's not done.