A Filthy Good Boy

Syren steps into the frame like she owns the room. Red lips, black heels, the kind of body that makes grown men forget their names. She looks down at you like she already knows what you’re made of. A filthy good boy waiting to be broken in. She doesn’t ask. She tells. Lie down. That’s all you get. She presses her bare foot against your chest, toes curling just enough to make you twitch. Then the crop comes out. Sharp snap against your thigh. One. Two. She counts slow, like she’s already bored of your limits. The dildo’s next. Thick. She works it in with no warm-up, just the slow stretch and the wet sound of you taking it. You leak when she tells you to. You stop when she says. She edges you until your legs shake and your breath comes out ragged. Every time you get close she pulls back, smirks, starts again. Her foot stays on you the whole time, heel grinding into your ribs when you start to beg. You don’t get to come. Not until she says. And she doesn’t say. She just watches you fall apart under her, one ruined stroke at a time.