Penny and the Giant

He steps into the room thinking he’s about to take charge. Muscle bound, cocky, grinning like he’s already inside her. Penny sees straight through it. She’s had this type before—frat boys, gym rats, guys who treat every woman like a finish line. She lets him keep the grin while she ties his wrists behind his back with thick black rope. The knots bite deep. He flexes once, twice, and the smile slips. She strips his shorts off, leaves him naked, hard, and suddenly quiet. The leather strap across his chest pins him to the bench, legs spread wide, ankles locked down. Sweat beads on his pecs. His cock stays up, confused, still hoping this is the good kind of trouble. Penny moves slow, runs one fingertip along the head until it twitches, then walks away. She comes back with a heavier rope, loops it around the base, cinches it tight, watches his balls swell darker. He grunts, tries to close his thighs, but the spreader bar holds. Every breath makes the chest strap dig in. She climbs onto him like furniture, knees planted on either side of his ribs, cunt inches from his mouth but never touching. When he leans up to taste her she slaps his face, once, hard, and tells him to stay down. His cock jerks at the sting. She reaches back, strokes him once, twice, stops right before he tips. Another rope around his throat, not tight enough to choke, just tight enough to remind him who’s holding the end. She tugs. His hips buck anyway. She laughs, low and mean, then settles her full weight on his face, grinding slow while his tongue works blind and desperate. Every time his rhythm gets too eager she pulls the throat rope and he gags on nothing, cock leaking against his own stomach. The bench creaks under them. He’s glistening, veins standing out, the frat-boy swagger long gone. She keeps him there, edged and aching, muscles trembling, until even the safe word starts to sound like begging.