### Chapter 9: Desperate Teases and Deeper Bonds
The shift between us didn't happen overnight, but it was undeniable now. The house no longer felt like a prison of lust—it felt like a shared space, fragile and sacred. I still woke with my cock hard against her thigh, still reached for her in the dark, still fucked her like I wanted to ruin her forever. But the cruelty had softened at the edges. The insults came slower, laced with something almost affectionate. And she no longer flinched when I called her names—she leaned into them, like they were proof I still wanted her.
Mornings remained brutal in their own way.
I'd tie her wrists loosely to the headboard with silk scarves—gentle enough not to reopen old marks—and spend the first hour of daylight edging her without mercy. No clamps today, no ice, just my fingers and tongue and the slow, torturous drag of my cockhead along her slit.
"Feel how wet you are already, my desperate little edge-slut?" I'd murmur against her inner thigh, breath hot on her swollen clit. "You leak for me before your eyes are even open. Pathetic."
She'd arch, hips lifting, voice cracking on the first plea of the day.
"Please… Master… just once… let me feel you inside…"
"Not yet."
I'd circle her clit with the pad of my thumb—slow, feather-light—watching her thighs tremble, her magnificent breasts rising and falling in frantic rhythm. Ten strokes. Twenty. Thirty. Each time she neared the edge I'd pull away completely, letting the cool air kiss her throbbing nub while she sobbed.
"Count them," I ordered one morning. "Out loud. How many times I've denied you."
"One… two… three…" Her voice broke on five. By ten she was crying openly, tears slipping into her hair. By fifteen her whole body shook like she had a fever.
"Twenty… twenty-one… oh God, Master, I can't—I can't anymore—"
"You can," I said softly. "You will. For me."
I kept going until thirty. Then forty. Her counting turned into whimpers, then wordless keening. Her cunt clenched on nothing, slick running in steady rivulets down her ass crack onto the sheets. When I finally pressed two fingers inside her—just enough to curl against her g-spot—she screamed.
But I still didn't let her cum.
I withdrew, wiped my fingers on her trembling thigh, and kissed her forehead.
"Good girl. You held for forty. That's a new record."
She sobbed harder—relief and agony tangled together.
Afternoons were for public risk again, but lighter now. I'd slip the small bullet vibe inside her before we left the house—no harness, no clamps, just the toy nestled deep, remote in my pocket. We'd walk through the old bazaar, her in a modest kurti and dupatta, me in jeans and a t-shirt. Every time she started to relax, I'd click the remote—low buzz at first, then medium, then pulsing.
She'd stumble, clutch my arm, bite her lip until it bled.
"Master… people will see…"
"Let them," I whispered, guiding her into a narrow alley between shops. "Let them see how hard my beautiful slave fights not to cum in public."
I pressed her back against the rough wall, hand slipping under her kurti to pinch her nipple while I ramped the vibe to high. Her knees buckled; I caught her, held her upright.
"Beg quietly," I breathed against her ear. "Or I'll make you cum right here where anyone can hear."
"Please… please… I need… I can't hold it… Master, mercy…"
I clicked it off.
She sagged against me, panting, tears in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I kissed her temple. "You're welcome, baby."
That night, back home, the teasing stretched into hours.
I tied her spread-eagle again—soft cuffs this time—and spent the evening bringing her to the brink over and over. Fingers. Tongue. The curved dildo I'd bought specially for her g-spot. Each time she got close—thighs shaking, breaths hitching, cunt clenching—I stopped. Slapped her clit lightly. Made her count backward from ten. Started again.
By the tenth denial she was incoherent.
"Ten… nine… eight… please… please Master… I'm begging… I'll do anything… I'm yours… I'm nothing without you… please let me cum…"
I climbed between her legs, slid my cock inside her in one slow, deep thrust.
"Look at me."
Her eyes—red, glassy, desperate—locked on mine.
"You've been so good," I said quietly. "So fucking good for me."
Then I fucked her—hard, steady, deep—each stroke grinding against her clit.
"Cum now," I growled. "Cum like the perfect, broken, beautiful slut you are."
She shattered.
The orgasm was volcanic—her whole body seized, back arching off the bed, a raw scream tearing from her throat. She squirted in forceful jets, soaking my stomach, the sheets, everything. Wave after wave crashed through her; her cunt milked me in rhythmic spasms, pulling me deeper. I kept thrusting through it, drawing out every tremor until she was limp, gasping, tears streaming.
I came inside her with a low groan, filling her until it leaked out around my cock.
Then I untied her slowly, gathered her into my arms, pulled the blanket over us both.
She curled against my chest immediately, still shaking.
I stroked her hair, kissed her damp forehead.
"You okay?" I asked softly.
She nodded against my skin.
"I… I love when you push me like that," she whispered. "But I love this more. When you hold me after. When you see me."
I swallowed hard.
"I see you," I said. "Every broken, beautiful piece."
We lay in silence for a long time.
Then she spoke again, voice small.
"Tomorrow… there's a college event in Jodhpur. Some alumni thing. I was thinking… maybe I could drive you there. Pick you up after."
I blinked.
"You want to come to my college?"
She nodded shyly.
"I want to see your world. The place you escape to when you're not… breaking me."
I laughed quietly—surprised, touched.
"Okay."
The next day she drove me. She waited outside the gates in her sleek black SUV while I attended the function. When it ended, a group of guys—same type who'd mocked me before—were loitering near the exit, laughing too loud.
One spotted me, smirked.
"Arre hero, aunty wali gaadi mein aa gaya? Kitna time deti hai woh tujhe?"
Before I could answer, she stepped out of the car.
Heels clicking on the pavement, kurti fluttering, she walked straight up to them like she owned the campus.
"Excuse me," she said, voice calm and lethal. "Did you just speak to my partner like that?"
They froze.
She didn't raise her voice. Didn't need to.
"I suggest you apologize. Now. Or I make one call and your entire future disappears. I don't bluff."
Silence. Then muttered sorrys. Then they scattered.
She turned to me, eyes softening instantly.
"Ready to go home?"
I stared at her—fierce, protective, maternal in the most primal way—and felt my chest crack open.
"Yeah," I said, voice rough. "Let's go home."
In the car, on the long drive back to Jaipur, I reached over and took her hand.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to."
I squeezed her fingers.
"I love you," I said. Simple. No kink. No dominance.
She glanced at me, eyes shining.
"I know," she whispered. "I've known for a while."
When we got home, I didn't tie her up.
I didn't tease her.
I just took her to bed, stripped us slowly, and made love to her—face-to-face, slow and deep, hands laced together.
No insults.
No commands.
Just us.
And when we came—quiet, trembling, together—it felt like the beginning of something new.
Something real.