shy love and Patrick

Shy catches Patrick when the bills hit again. He smirks, tells her to handle it herself, and that’s all the excuse she needs. She drags him over her knee. Hard. Her palm cracks across his ass, steady, relentless. He twists, grits his teeth, but she pins him and keeps swinging until the skin burns red under her hand. When he still has too much to say, she tapes his mouth shut, shoves the black ball between his lips, cinches it tight. His complaints turn to wet, muffled grunts. Next she lashes his balls, tight coils of rope biting in, pulling them down and forward until every breath makes him flinch. He stays hard anyway. Shame and lust mixed together. She works his cock with slow, deliberate strokes, gripping just enough to keep him on edge, never enough to let him come. Sweat dots his chest. She leans in, voice low, making him thank her for every pulled squeeze and every released stroke. When she’s bored of his mouth making excuses through the gag, she shoves his face between her cheeks and orders him to worship. Tongue working, nose buried, the only sound in the room the wet drag of his lips against her skin. She rides the rhythm of his breath until she’s satisfied, then stands, buckles the strap-on in place, slick black length bobbing between her thighs. Patrick shakes his head, eyes wide. Too late. Shy grabs his hair, forces him down, presses the head against him until he yields. The fight leaves his body the moment she pushes inside. He moans through the gag, every muscle slack under her weight. She drives in deep, sets a punishing pace, hips slapping his punished ass. He takes it. No more smart remarks, just the steady slap of flesh and the low, desperate sound of a man who finally understands who’s in charge.