I stood there, heart drumming against my ribs, heels clicking softly against the tiles as I took hesitant steps back into the lounge. My black lace bodysuit hugged every curve, sheer in all the right places, clinging to me like anticipation. A silk kimono floated behind me, but it may as well have been air. I felt exposed—like he could see through my body into my soul.
Master Vincent turned to face me fully.
His eyes moved slowly over me. Not hurried. Not hungry. Calculating. As though deciding which part of me to break first.
> "You look… exquisite," he said, voice like velvet dragged over steel.
I blushed. Something I hadn't done in years.
Then, he moved toward me with quiet authority. No sudden movements, just presence. Controlled. Measured. Predatory.
He reached behind me and tugged the kimono from my shoulders. It slid to the floor without protest, pooling at my ankles like surrender.
> "No safe word tonight," he said. "You signed for an hour of total surrender. That still true?"
I nodded.
> "Words, Lethabo. I expect words."
> "Yes, Sir."
The words tasted foreign—sweet and strange on my tongue. He smiled slightly, pleased.
> "Then let's begin."
He guided me gently to the bench. It was cold against my thighs as I leaned forward. My wrists were secured first—leather cuffs, tight but comfortable. Then my ankles, spread wide, locked into place. I was fully exposed, face pressed into the velvet padding, my ass in the air, my chest heaving against the edge.
And then… silence.
No touch. No word. Just the sound of his steps as he circled me. The quiet flicker of candlelight.
My breathing quickened.
Then came the first strike.
Not pain. Not violence. Art.
A soft flogger, lashes made of suede, snapped gently against the curve of my backside. The sting was light but electrifying. Each stroke kissed the surface of my skin and traveled deeper—like it wasn't my body he was reaching for, but my shame, my fear, my control.
He built the rhythm slowly, increasing intensity, watching how my body responded. When I gasped, he paused. When I whimpered, he leaned close.
> "You're doing so well," he whispered into my ear, breath warm on my neck. "Do you trust me?"
> "Yes, Daddy."
The words slipped out before I could catch them.
And his groan was my reward.
He reached between my thighs. My body was drenched—betraying how much I wanted this, needed this. One thick finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, curling just right. Then another. Then his tongue joined the assault.
My mind blanked.
I moaned into the bench, bucking against the restraints, desperate for more.
> "Not yet," he said, withdrawing his hand. "You don't come until I say."
He reached for a different tool. A paddle now. The sound of it cracked through the room—but not from pain. It was permission. Each spank landed with intent, pushing me further from myself, deeper into him.
Then came his mouth again—hot, relentless.
I moaned louder, tears pricking the corners of my eyes from the tension in my belly.
> "You're beautiful when you beg," he murmured, lips against my thigh. "Now… come for me."
And I did.
Hard. Violently. Messily.
A gush I didn't know my body was capable of soaked the bench.
My entire world contracted and exploded in rhythm with my cries.
I sagged forward, limp, breathless.
But he wasn't done.
He unstrapped me gently, turned me around, and carried me to the rug like a prize. My legs shook as he laid me down.
Then I felt it.
Warm liquid splashing against my belly.
I gasped—eyes wide, heart skipping.
A golden shower.
Instinct said shock. But my body said yes.
My second orgasm ripped through me—raw and primal. I came again, squirting this time. My moans were animal. My pride? Gone. Only need remained.
He watched me collapse, spent and soaked.
Then he leaned down, kissed my trembling lips, and whispered:
> "I own this now."