Vendetta and Sir C

Sir C walks in and gets straight to work on Vendetta. She stands ready, already his. He ropes her tight, chest out, arms pulled back, the kind of restraint that leaves her nowhere to hide. Curves strain against every knot. Blonde hair hangs loose until he grabs it, yanks her head, forces her gaze to meet his. Then the water tank comes into play. He lowers her down. She disappears beneath the surface. Bubbles. Silence. He pulls her back up and she sucks air like she’s starving for it, chest heaving, water streaming off every inch of skin. Before she catches a full breath he pushes her under again. Each time longer. Each time rougher. She fights the rope, fights the panic, fights how badly she wants it. He never rushes. He lets the fear build, lets the need show on her face, then drops her back into the dark. Gasps turn ragged. Muscles shake. Blonde hair plastered to flushed skin. He keeps her on the edge, breath stolen, body owned, until the tank and the rope and his hands say exactly who’s running the scene.