Letting Him Choose

She lets the rope bite and the power linger while he still thinks he decides. "Choose," she says, voice low, almost kind. He can have the chair, leather straps ready to hug every inch, or the plastic sheeting and duct tape that will wrap him up until he can’t twitch a finger. Both mean the same thing in the end: his cock at her mercy, trapped, throbbing, stroked without mercy until he’s begging for release she hasn’t promised. She watches his mouth, savors the pause before surrender. Whatever word he gives her, she already knows he’ll learn to regret it, and she’ll savor every second of that lesson.