Your body trembles under his touch—not from fear, but from how deeply he knows you.
One hand remains at the small of your back, holding you in place with effortless pressure.
The other glides across your skin
in maddening patterns—down the curve
of your ass,
the back of your thigh,
then slipping away just when you need it most.
"So eager," he murmurs, voice low and steady. "But not in control."
You whimper when his fingers ghost over your inner thigh again. So close. So close.
"Patience."
"You beg too early, you lose the privilege."
His mouth finds your shoulder,
warm lips brushing over your skin like he's tasting the tension.
He bites
—just enough for you to gasp—
then kisses the mark he leaves behind.
He shifts behind you, and you hear the soft clink of metal—restraints. The sound alone makes your breath hitch.
"Wrists, BabyGirl."
You obey without hesitation,
arms stretched out in front of you
as you lower to the mattress.
You feel the cool
leather cuffs circle your wrists.
Hear the click as he locks you in.
"You're mine.
This body,
this need,
this ache—
you gave them to me."
His palm slides down your spine again.
You moan into the pillow,
hips shifting for friction
that he won't give you.
He chuckles darkly.
"You don't get to move unless I say."
"You don't get to come unless I say."
"Tonight, you exist to feel."
Then he does what he always does best—he takes his time.
He touches everywhere but there.
Trailing gloved fingertips down your back. Pressing soft,
open-mouthed kisses to the dip at the base
of your spine.
Spanking you in perfect rhythm
with praise and restraint.
He whispers how good you're being,
how wet you are,
how much he loves making you squirm—
but never gives you what you want.
Not yet.
" Tell me what you need,"
he says,
voice like sin and smoke.
"Please, Sir,"
you beg.
"Touch me. Let me feel you—"
"You are feeling me,"
he growls,
palm flattening between your shoulder blades. "But if you want more?
You'll have to earn it."
The cuffs hold you still, but it's not the leather biting into your wrists that pins you in place—it's his presence. The weight of his gaze. The precision of his control. The way he can unravel your resolve without ever needing to raise his voice.
You're burning. Every inch of you.
Dripping. Trembling.
But he's not done teasing yet.
You feel the bed dip slightly as he straddles behind you, his thighs caging yours. His clothed chest brushes your bare back, and you arch instinctively—but he clicks his tongue in disapproval.
"Tsk. I didn't say you could move."
He leans down, voice right at your ear now, words brushing against your skin like silk ropes.
"You're going to stay exactly like this, BabyGirl. While I enjoy everything that's mine."
You nod, but that's not enough.
"Use your words."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl."
Then... you feel it.
Warm breath.
His tongue.
But not where you need it.
Instead, he kisses behind your knees. Down your calves. Up the inside of your thighs—then pulls back the moment your hips twitch forward. His mouth returns to your hips, then your lower back, tracing slow, wet patterns with the tip of his tongue before blowing cool air over your skin, watching goosebumps rise.
"So sensitive," he murmurs. "So greedy. You're close, aren't you? And I haven't even really touched you yet."
You're shaking. Nearly crying. Whimpering into the pillow.
He brushes his knuckles over your soaked core—just once—then pulls away again.
You sob."Please—"
"Shhh," he whispers, kissing the curve of your shoulder. "You'll get my fingers when I say. My mouth when I say. My cock... when I say."
"Not a second before."
And then, as if it's the most casual thing in the world, he reaches for a small silver remote on the nightstand.
"You don't need my fingers yet," he says calmly. "Let's see how long you can take the toy instead."
He presses the button.
And your body jolts.
The soft vibration starts low. Controlled. Teasing.
He must have placed it there before restraining you. You hadn't even noticed.
You scream into the sheets as it pulses directly against your clit—low, steady, not enough to finish... but enough to make you writhe.
"No permission. No release."
"Not until you're crying for it."