This Is How You Make Fetishes Worse

Four hours strapped down and he still thinks he can mouth off about my knots. My ex. My restless little boy. His wrists and ankles bite into the cuffs he begged for. Every muscle strains, trying to prove the rope around his cock isn’t perfect. But it is. Swollen, purple, throbbing exactly where I left it. Four hours. No give. Just heat and ache. The vibe I shoved against him earlier sits dead and buzzing on the sheets. He’s hard enough that the tie barely flexes. He spits curses when he thinks I’m out of earshot, then whimpers my name when he remembers I might be listening. I don’t answer. I let the house stay quiet except for his breathing and the tiny clink of chain. Door opens. My other friend walks through, sees him trussed and leaking, smirks, keeps walking. He watches the whole thing. Watches me lean over the bed later, drip lube down that bound shaft, drag one finger up the underside and stop just before the head. Watches the knot hold while his hips jerk for more and find nothing. He cries, low and ugly. He calls me goddess, mistress, ex, anything that might crack mercy out of me. It doesn’t. Later I come back in cheerleader shorts, tank damp with someone else’s sweat. I climb over his chest, let my fingers slide over my own skin, then his. His cock jumps against the tie like it’s trying to salute. I laugh, stroke twice, then let go. The ruined spurt hits fast—thick, sudden, splattering his stomach while the rope stays tight. He gasps like he’s been punched. I wipe my hand on his thigh and leave him there again. Four hours in and he’s still asking himself the same question he won’t say out loud: whether he ever stopped being mine.