Date With a Dominatrix (1 of 2)

Dominik walks in holding flowers like he’s picking her up for dinner. The doorman in the hood takes one look and waves him through. Cybill sits dead still in a full black latex catsuit, crop resting across her thighs. She glances at the roses, then at him, and laughs once—short and cold. A clipboard slides across the table. Sign it. When the pen leaves his fingers she’s already on her feet. The flowers hit his cheek, petals scattering. She spits in his face, strings of spit hanging from his jaw, and tells him to get naked. He’s slow, so the crop snaps across his thighs. He’s still standing when she grabs his balls, squeezing until his knees buckle. Naked now, he’s ordered to kiss latex. She plants her ass over his mouth, shiny and tight, cutting off his air while the crop taps his shoulder to keep time. Then she drops her boot on his tongue. Spit follows—wet, thick—washing grit down his throat. She cuffs him to the cross next, tying his cock and balls down to floor rings so every twitch pulls. Clover clamps bite his nipples; he hisses but can’t yell because the leash is in his teeth. The crop flicks across the stretched skin again and again, each strike jerking the leash, making him taste leather while his balls stay pinned to the floor.