Anti Anxiety Tease

She keeps the gag tight, a leather bit between your teeth that steals every word before it forms. Your wrists are crossed and strapped at the small of your back, shoulders pulled, chest exposed, nothing left to hide. She wears the kind of calm that feels illegal. Every move is slow, deliberate, like she has all night and plans to use it. First she studies. Then she takes. Her fingers wrap around your cock—already hard, already twitching—while her thumb circles the circumcision scar, slow pressure that pulls a helpless sound past the gag. She watches the sound happen, pleased. You try to move; the cuffs hold. You try to speak; the bit turns it into spit and heat. She leans in, lips brushing the head once, twice, never enough. A quick swirl of tongue, then gone. Your hips jerk; she laughs soft and low. The next time her mouth sinks lower, stays longer, throat flexing around you, but she pulls back right when your breathing changes. Edging is the point. You ride the edge until your mind blanks and all that’s left is the wet slide of her tongue and the tug of leather on your wrists. When your pulse spikes too high she leans close, voice velvet over steel. “Breathe,” she says. You obey. She rewards you with another slow, shallow suck, then nothing again. The cycle repeats: tight heat, sudden absence, the low murmur telling you to stay right where she wants you—hard, helpless, alive. Sweat beads on your stomach. Her nails trace the same path her tongue just left. Every time you strain she reminds you, soft and merciless, that the only relief you’ll get tonight is the one she chooses to give. No finish. Just the endless, exquisite stretch of wanting more.