The Pianist

She plays like she belongs to the room, fingers gliding over ivory. Lyra Law waits for the last note to fade before she turns, fingers still resting on the keys, and says she wants out. Derrick Pierce does not answer with words. He steps behind her, pulls her wrists back, and knots rope tight enough that the chair legs scrape. Her dress rips at the seam when he yanks it up. Rope digs across her chest, biting through silk, lifting her small tits until her nipples press hard against the fabric. She tries to stand. He forces her down, knees on the bench, chest against the closed fallboard. The first gag is his fingers—two deep in her mouth, stretching her jaw—then he replaces them with the soaked strip of her own torn panties. Tape seals it. Her eyes water but she keeps staring at the keys like they might save her. Derrick drags her to the floor, spreads her ass, and spits where the rope already pulls her cheeks apart. He works lube in with two fingers, slow, then three, opening her until she strains against the knots. When he pushes his cock past the tight ring, she grunts into the gag, hips jerking. He pins her shoulders, drives deeper, pace turning rough fast. Every thrust knocks her forward; rope creaks; the bench groans under their weight. He flips her onto her back, legs pulled up and tied wide. The anal fucking never stops—harder now, balls slapping skin, her hole stretched shiny around his shaft. She fights it, muscles clenching, but every time she bucks he pushes deeper, growling that she is staying. Spit trails down her cheek around the gag. Sweat beads on her throat. Her cunt drips untouched. He pulls out just long enough to shove back into her mouth, makes her taste the lube and her own ass, then sinks into her rear again. Rope marks cross her ribs. Her thighs shake. When he finally comes he stays buried, pulse after pulse flooding her. Lyra lies bound and shaking on the lounge floor, mascara streaked, breath ragged through the gag. The contract is not up for discussion.