Shut Up and Please Me

Jet Setting Jasmine stands over you in tight black latex that squeaks when she moves. She takes one look at your cock and laughs—short, mean. That thing's useless to her except as a toy. She shoves you onto the table, spreads your legs wider than you thought possible. Her fingers wrap around your shaft, cruel and clinical. "This is how I want it," she tells you, guiding your hips exactly where she needs them, her voice flat when she corrects your angle, your depth, your speed. She wants you desperate. She wants you aching. Every time you push close she stops you cold, fingers pinching off the base until the edge passes and you have to start all over. She smiles without warmth when your thighs shake. Then she brings out the rod. She warms a few drops of her own milk between her breasts, coats the steel until it gleams. One gloved hand pins your hips while the other feeds the tip straight into your slit. The latex creaks. The rod slides. You feel every cold inch push deeper while she watches your face for the smallest twitch of resistance. She wants silence. She wants obedience. She keeps pushing until she decides you've taken enough, then she leaves it there, buried, while she decides what to do with the rest of you.