Bad, bad boy

She comes home mad. Water rings on the old coffee table. He was warned. Now she’s got him where she wants him. He stands there in his shorts, black hair still damp from the shower, muscles tight from the game. She doesn’t raise her voice. She just points at the marks and tells him to strip. He obeys. Knees on the hardwood, wrists already cuffed behind his back with the leather cuffs she keeps in the drawer. She pushes his face down, makes him kiss the water stains like they’re the only thing that matters. Then she slips a thick leather collar around his throat and clips a short chain to it, running the free end between his legs and up to the cuffs. One tug and he’s pulled tighter, back arched, cock already hard against his thigh. She sits on the edge of the table, spreads her legs, and pulls his mouth where she needs it. He licks like he’s sorry. She holds him there by the hair, grinding slow while the chain jerks with every twitch of his shoulders. Every time he tries to ease the pull she yanks the chain harder. He groans into her, the sound muffled, desperate. She keeps him there until her thighs shake. Then she stands, turns him around, and drops to her knees in front of him. She takes him in her mouth, slow and mean, tongue working every inch while her fingers dig into his ass. Every time he thrusts she stops. Makes him stay still. Makes him beg with his eyes. When she’s ready she stands again, heels planted wide, and bends him over the same table he ruined. She works lube into him with two fingers, then presses the head of the strap-on against him until he opens. One hard push and she’s inside. She fucks him steady, one hand gripping the chain at his back, the other reaching around to stroke his cock in time with her thrusts. Sweat runs down his spine. The table creaks under them. She doesn’t let him come until she’s finished. When she finally strokes him through it, he spills across the wood, adding another mark she’ll make him clean with his tongue.