Cockateel

Shackled to the post, Darling shifts and squirms, knees burning in that awkward crouch. She hams it up for the lens until I call her out. She laughs, admits it. Says she likes the game. I half-listen, already thinking how to strip the game away and leave only real strain. I order the heels off. Barefoot now, toes curled against the floor, the position turns cruel fast. She asks for the vibrator. Used to calling shots, she tries again. I shut it down. She can earn it or stay empty. My hand travels her pale skin, slapping until pink turns crimson, welts rising in neat lines across big breasts and thighs. When the ache is deep enough, I make her beg out loud, make her describe exactly how she wants to come before I grant it. Before the afterglow fades I buckle her into the spreader chair, thighs forced wide. The gas mask seals over her face, breath rasping loud and thin. Between her legs the machine waits. I switch it on and watch her jolt, muffled cries fogging the visor. I turn dials, change angles, paint fresh stripes on her skin, make her twist and buck. She obeys every order, eyes glassy with need, because the second orgasm is already coiled tight inside her and her whole body is begging louder than words.