My dominatrix ex-girlfriend

Anneke Necro spent years planning this. Seven years together, then Jack just vanished. Now she has him—cuffed, hooded, locked in the soundproof room she built for this exact moment. The door opens. She steps inside. She peels the hood off and clicks the cuffs free only to shove him onto the cold stretcher waiting in the center. That tight, glossy black latex clings to every curve; the message is clear—she runs the show now. She winds roll after roll of tape around him, smoothing each strip tight until his shoulders, chest, hips and legs disappear beneath an inescapable cocoon. Only his head stays exposed, throat bobbing with every panicked breath. He’s locked in place, muscles useless under the tape. Anneke smiles and lowers herself onto his face, smothering him with deliberate, slow pressure. Then she grinds her bare heel across his lips, forcing him to drag his tongue along the sole he swore he’d never touch again. Minutes later she stuffs a filthy sock into his mouth and seals it with strip after strip of duct tape until every muffled protest dies behind the wrap. The vibrator hums to life next. She presses it firm against his trapped cock, holding it steady while his muscles jerk uselessly inside the cocoon. His body strains, trembles, finally breaks—pulse after pulse shuddering through him until he comes hard, helpless, and she watches every twitch. Finished for now, she leaves the vibrator on the floor, steps over the taped form, and pulls the dungeon door shut behind her. This round’s done. The rest is still coming.