Venus and Rider

Mistress Venus kicks the door shut. Her heels click across the same grimy floor her slave swore to scrub. One glance and her jaw tightens. She yanks his blindfold down, lets it rest on his cheeks like a second mouth. "Eyes stay shut," she snaps. The leather strop cracks across his back before he can answer. Each lash lands sharp, leaves heat blooming under the skin. When the crop slices air again, he flinches, a useless sound escaping him. She palms his face, thumb digging into his cheek, twisting until he tastes copper. "Lick." He bends, tongue dragging shoe leather while she hovers just above him, letting the scent of her cunt drift to his nose but giving him nothing more. His breath hitches; she laughs low. Finally she grabs his hair, shoves his mouth against her, grinding until spit and slick run down his chin. She drops him, rolls him onto his stomach, and works lube across his untouched hole with two fingers. He groans, muscles fighting the stretch. She sinks in anyway, slow at first, then harder, riding until his shoulders shake. When she pulls out, she leaves him empty, spins him, ropes his wrists to his ankles until his spine bows. The scrubbing brush is jammed between his teeth, bristles scraping tongue. "Finish the floor," she tells him, heel already on the threshold. The door slams. He breathes through nylon and spit, brush clenched, body still twitching.