Don't You Dare

Kyle sits bound to the chair, wrists and ankles tight, cock already stiff and straining. Arson Leigh leans in, breathes a whisper at his ear, then slides her palm over that hard length. She drops to her knees, lets spit fall onto the swollen head, flicks it with the tip of her tongue. A quick tug and the briefs are cut away; she grabs the full shaft and grinds her slick folds along it. Every time Kyle tries to buck, she pulls back, sucks just the crown, eyes locked on his, never letting him tip over. When he’s shaking she climbs up, straddles his thigh, strokes him with one hand while her mouth claims his in a hard, teeth-clash kiss. Kyle ends up on his back, spread wide on the bed, wrists and ankles fixed to the corners. Arson mounts him facing away, feeds his cock into her cunt and rides slow, then fast, then stops—smothering his shaft between her cheeks while he throbs. She stuffs him back inside, adds the Hitachi to her clit, and tells him to fuck her deep and fast. Kyle’s hips slam up; she rides the edge until her own orgasm hits, muscles clenching tight. She slips off, grinds his slick cock against her slit again, toes in his mouth, then turns around and sinks down once more. “Thrust,” she orders. Kyle drives upward, balls drawn tight. Arson keeps him there until the last second, then slides off so he can shoot—thick ropes splashing across his stomach while she watches every pulse.