Kym Wilde and Saba

Saba drops fast and stays down. Kym Wilde knows exactly how far he will bend, and he proves it every time she gives an order. One wrong word and she’s on him, fists knotted in his black hair, yanking his head back until the tendons stand out on his throat. He mutters 'Mam'—instant mistake. Kym’s smile is thin as wire. She cinches leather cuffs around his wrists, ankles, thighs, buckles him open on the bench so every inch is hers to claim or deny. Rope bites into brown skin. His cock juts, helpless, dark, straining. She works it slow, cruel: hard strokes, sudden stops, the flat of her palm across the head until he jerks and hisses through his teeth. Sweat rolls. She leans in, breath hot at his ear, tells him exactly what she’s going to do next and how long he’ll wait for it. His only answer is a broken sound that earns him another slap, another denial, another stretch of his bound body while she decides whether mercy exists tonight.