Domination

Seven has a mean streak and she knows exactly how to use it. She strings the slave boy up so he hangs, arms spread, body wide open. She hits him hard, metal and leather cracking across his skin. He’s tall, muscular, black, and she works every inch. Sweat rolls down his back. She spits on him, laughs when he flinches, calls him worthless. He takes it because she makes him. She pulls his head back, yanks his cock, slaps his balls, lets the ache build until he’s trembling. She fucks him while he’s still hanging, grinds down, uses him. Every thrust is control. He gasps, tries to hold on, fails. She edges him until his voice cracks, then makes him beg—raw, desperate, broken. He’s close. She keeps him there. The room smells like leather and sweat and her perfume. He strains. She smiles. He begs louder.