Pleasing The Kitty

Brooke sits strapped to the chair, arms pinned, legs spread, the helmet sealed over her head. Black hair clings to her neck. She knows the drill. She’s done this a hundred times. The girls know it too. They still take their time. One checks the rope at her wrists, another tests the strap across her chest. The mask presses tight—sound gone, light gone. Only the slow build of her own breathing inside the plastic shell. They don’t rush. Fingers trace her skin, slide between her thighs, pull away. They set the vibe just close enough for heat but not touch. She jerks once, twice. Nothing happens. They laugh, quiet and low, then pull back again. The helmet stays on. Her world stays black. First pass. The motor hums to life against her clit and Brooke’s whole body locks. Her breath catches hard. The teasing chatter stops dead. She strains, hips rocking against the strap, but the vibe stays steady, cruel, perfect. Every nerve lights up at once. She’s been edged before, but never like this—cut off from everything except the pressure and the need. She makes a sound, raw, animal, and the girls just watch. Second round is worse. They wait until she’s shaking, then kill the vibe and leave her hanging. Seconds stretch. She fights the ropes, thighs trembling, cunt pulsing around nothing. When the toy returns it’s worse—slow circles, then hard, then nothing again. Her moans turn ragged. The helmet swallows every word she tries to form. The scene fades on Brooke, bound and shaking, still locked in the dark, still wanting.