I Think I Broke Him

She keeps him blindfolded and lashed to the chair, wrists cinched, ankles spread. Her blonde hair brushes his chest each time she leans in. The slick sound of her fist sliding up and down stops right when his hips twitch. She laughs low, lets the edge fade, starts again. Faster. Slower. Never enough. Sweat runs down his ribs. Every time he begs she just presses her palm flat and waits for him to quiet down, then she goes right back to work. The room is hot, quiet except for skin on skin and his ragged breathing. She doesn’t stop until his cock stops straining and just hangs there, twitching, useless. “Think I broke him,” she says to nobody in particular, giving the shaft one last, idle stroke that makes it jerk and spurt nothing at all.