True Slut Detective

Detective Lynn steps into the abandoned penthouse and the scent hits her first. Leather, sweat, sex. She should be bagging evidence. Instead she slides a gloved finger over a steel spreader bar bolted to the floor. Another. This one has cuffs dangling from it. Her pulse kicks. A quick look around, no partner, no backup, just her and the toys someone forgot to hide. She drops to one knee, unlocks the cuffs, and lines them around her own wrists. They click. Her breath catches. She tests them, leans forward, feels the stretch in her shoulders. Her free hand dips into the open leather duffel on the bed and comes up with a fat black ball gag, still shiny with someone else’s spit. She pushes it between her teeth, buckles it tight behind her head. The rubber fills her mouth, jaw stretched wide. She moans around it, low and wet. The sound makes her thighs clench. She reaches back with her other gloved hand, tugs her trousers and panties down to mid-thigh. Cool air on bare skin. Her fingers slide between her cheeks, find the tight ring, press. Spit drips from the gag onto the floor. She works one finger in, then two, scissoring, opening herself. The cuffs rattle. She leans harder, pushes back, takes a third. Her hole burns, yields, takes more. When four fingers sink to the knuckles she feels the stretch turn into something filthy and open. She twists her wrist, adds the thumb. The ring stretches around her whole hand, a wet, obscene pop, then her knuckles slide inside. She fists herself slowly, in and out, the leather glove squeaking. Every push makes her gape a little wider on the pull. She watches her reflection in the dark window, cuffed, gagged, wrist-deep in her own ass, and the heat in her gut spikes. She fucks herself faster, fist twisting, hole swallowing, until her thighs shake and she comes without touching her clit, just the relentless pressure inside her, the cuffs, the gag, the empty room watching her turn into exactly what the scene wants.