Virgin Therapy In The Dungeon

Same boy. Still untouched. Still breaks. Couldn't hold the lock he begged for, and now the mistress stretches his sentence in the dungeon. Blonde hair. Cold steel. Hard cock sealed behind metal with no hope of release. She toys with the leash, pulls his face close, makes him breathe her scent while the restraints bite. One word from her and he trembles, leans into the tension like it might save him. She laughs low, tells him exactly what she plans: longer, harder, no mercy. He answers in a small voice, admits he wants it anyway. The air is thick with sweat and leather and the low hum of their back-and-forth, filthy and intimate, circling tighter each time she speaks. She keeps him pinned, keeps him aching, keeps the keys tucked between her breasts where he'll never reach them. He watches, waits, learns how long denial can feel when the woman above him decides to make it last.