Same Song and Dance

“You’re shaking.” Mina's low voice sends a jolt down your spine. “Am I that scary?”

Her voice is slightly teasing, just like how she drags the red rope over your arm’s skin. The sensation awakes goosebumps in between the burning of the rope and the light touches she mixes in to remind you how heavenly she feels.

Your throat bobs, eyes fixed on the wall in front of you. You’re not sure what she wants to hear today.

“O-of course not, Mistress. I am just excited.”

You bet wrong. The rope squeezes tighter, and her eyes probably do that sparkling thing they do when she thinks about watching you squirm under her.

“Wrong answer. I’m terrifying today.” You feel her nails lightly scratch over your back as she switches from your right arm to your left, binding them together. It’s intentional, she knows it drives you wild. She knows every way to drive you wild. It’s like she invents them late at night, somewhere between breaking your heart and invading your dreams.

‘Yes, Mistress. You’re always terrifying.”

Mina tuts behind you.

“Wrong again.” You feel the rope pull your arms closer and back straighter, the long fabric burning into your skin in a way that will remind you who you belong to in days to come.

Not that you could ever forget.

“I’m only terrifying when I want to be.” 

The ghosts of scratches on your back and the gentle way she sometimes slightly touches your hard cock with her feet in your lap remind you that you are always one wrong word away from finishing alone in a cold bed.

“Of course, Mistress. I apologise.” 

“It’s ok. You will just have to pay the only way you can.” She tugs the rope one last time, causing you to wince, and begins gently tracing her handiwork with her fingers. She lets them brush your skin sometimes, teasing the idea of touching you and making you scream. 

Your forearms are bound together behind your back, elbows bent at 90 degrees. The same rope pulls taut enough to create friction when you try to move but not enough to cut blood flow off. It is a sign of devotion to your mistress, encompassing your arms, shoulders, chest and back. It leaves you with only tiny twitches allowed. They just make the rough fabric dig deeper into you and leave your skin burning. You are decorated for her, like an offering from you to her. The only thing you can offer being your warm skin.

The scorching friction of the rope is the opposite of the cold bite the metal shackles hold your ankles with. Different sensation, same difference – you are not going anywhere until she lets you.

“You are so pretty like this. Like a present.” Mina’s body pulls closer to yours, and the heat from her naked skin is bordering on unbearable. You try to take a deep breath, and it is all intoxicating vanilla that invades your lungs as if trying to possess you.

Her hands come forward and wrap around your cock.

“Fuck! Mistress –" 

She squeezes you. Hard, with the clear intent of causing you pain, and you apologise like a reflex. A survival mechanism drilled into your core after many reiterations of the same story.

“What are you sorry for?” In a sultry whisper, the one that makes you leak in her hands. Of course she has the perfect strategy to counter yours.

“For swearing, Mistress.” But your voice is uncertain, your answer a guess at the rules for today.

She can’t allow your devotion to be just a guess.

“Wrong again. That’s your third time today.” And she lets go of your cock. Maybe it is more cruel than squeezing it. You haven’t asked her which one you prefer yet, so you don’t know.

Mina gets up, the bed offering minimal protest to her lithe body moving on it, and finally walks from behind you to your line of sight. With how close she is now, you can finally smell her sweet wetness, not just the vanilla that oozes from her skin and the candles in the room. It feels so real, so sweet, so personal.

She stands before you, and you have to crane your neck to see her face. Though, it’s hard to tear your gaze away from her long legs and rivulets of wetness running down them, past her pristine folds that make your mouth water, past her toned abs and sculpted breasts. 

When you do eventually get to her porcelain face, it is shrouded in darkness, her black hair blocking most of the small amount of light in the room. The candle’s flames dance in her eyes, making them shine in the tunnel of darkness. 

A hand tangles in your hair slowly, and you shudder in anticipation. Or it is surprise from how soft and tender her touch is while her eyes stay locked on yours with the threat of eating you alive. She hasn’t told you yet which one you should feel more, so you don’t know.

“Let’s try again. I said, you are so pretty like this. Like a present.” Her hand moves to your cheek. The soft caress promises a sharp slap if you blunder again.

“Thank you, Mistress. I apologise for not thanking you before.” Your throat bobs, eyes unable to tear away from hers.

“Are you sure that’s what you are sorry for?” Her eyes are waiting for the smallest reason to punish you.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, every goosebump rising, the bob of your throat, your eyes watering – all in anticipation of how she responds to your next words. This slow build-up, these light touches, this unpredictability is what has you coming back again and again.

She was right. She always is. She is absolutely terrifying today. And you can’t get enough.

“Yes, Mistress.” Her hand lifts from your cheek, and you brace for the sting that never comes.

“Good boy.” She whispers with a predatory smirk, and the flame flickers in her eyes.

Her hand moves back to your hair, the threat of the slap moving for later in the night when she gets bored of deciding you’ve behaved.

She begins dragging her wet folds over your face, smearing her juices on your nose, cheeks, mouth, jaw, anywhere she can. The warmth and softness make your head spin. Another deep breath, and this time it is mainly her scent that fills your nose, sweet and dizzying.

“You’re mine. I want you to walk out of here with my cum on your face. I want everyone to know that you are just my plaything to mark and dirty.” Mina’s voice is breathless from grinding her clit on whichever edge on your face she can find in the long, sharp drags of her hips.

You nod into her pussy with the dignity of a tied man that has sold his mind, body and soul to the devil.

“Yes, Mistress. I would love that.”

“Lick.” 

Your tongue slips out and laps her juices as if you’d die of thirst without it. Long drags through her folds, them parting easily to allow you the pleasure of bringing her pleasure. Flat tongue with pressure against her throbbing clit, a light suck, repeat. Just as she likes it. Your moans vibrate through her skin, and you’re unsure which one of you likes it better.

You’d have to ask.

Your cock bobs uselessly below her open legs, precum rappelling to form a dark spot on the bedsheets.

The pleasure is evident in the way Mina’s usually stern face softens. Her mouth parts around quiet moans and head nods in encouragement. A staunch red hue takes over her pristine white skin – breasts, clavicles, neck, and cheeks – all growing hotter because of you.

But her eyes are what kills you. Dark and reflecting the candles’ light, locked on yours like the chains digging into your skin. You can see something that resembles love if you lie to yourself well enough.

“Inside.” One of your favourite commands. One that often comes breathless and heavy. 

Her velvet walls part around your tongue only to tighten around it. One of her legs swings over your shoulder and steps behind your tied torso. She leans her whole body forward, and you stumble backwards, but she holds your hair firmly so you don’t fall.

Not because you are precious but because your tongue slipping out when you’ve already worked her up would be an inconvenience.

Her sweet whimpers fill the air the same way her juices fill your mouth – taking up space that only belongs to them.

“You are so pathetic like that.” Her voice carries that cadence that makes you moan in agreement with anything she says. “You look like you would die to get to lick me for longer.”

And you probably would. If she wanted you to.

You press your tongue to the one spot that makes her mewl and her abs flex over your head. You can feel the clench travel to her wet pussy, your tongue suffocating in cotton and drowning in nectar.

You see it in her eyes first before you feel her juices flood your mouth or her walls spasm. She gets this look for a second that makes you feel like you might get to her cold heart through eating her out one day. The second before she flutters around your tongue and drenches your chin in pleasure, she looks almost thankful, almost desperate.

But her fingers dig into your scalp even as she comes undone over you, the rope burns into your skin, the strong smell of vanilla sticks to the back of your lust-drunken mind – even through the copious fluids spread on your face. She bites her lips – the ones you long for every moment you breathe and especially the ones you don't – to seal the pleasure of hearing her praise. It all reminds you of the real world. 

The one where she doesn’t beg, doesn’t hold you after she’s done, doesn’t use you past how she would a warm, self-cleaning dildo.

Her walls clench around your tongue in rhythmic pulses meant to bring her maximum pleasure, abs fluttering in the same beat. Her hips are brutalising your face, making her breasts rise and fall with heavy breaths, almost moans.

A tear rolls down your cheek, and your heart swells with devotion. You make her feel so good, and she allows you to see it. It’s all you could ever wish for.

Her spasms subside and her breathing normalises again. The stern expression of ownership is back even while her sweet juices mix with your tears.

Mina lets go of you, and you fall backwards on the plush blanket you can barely feel through the rough rope. Arms and legs bound, lungs barely filling with air before she crushes you again by sitting on your chest.

A sharp slap lands on your cheek with the sound of wet skin getting abused. A pathetic sound – something between a sob and a moan – rips from your throat.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.” Though you don’t know what you are apologising for yet again. All you know is that your tears appease her when she wants them to, and that’s better than nothing.

“What are you apologising for?” Her skin is still slightly flushed, but the authority of her voice is absolute. How couldn’t it when you are marked by her bondage and cum?

“I don’t know!” You exclaim through tears and pathetic flexes against the rope that only remind you how much she burns.

Another wet slap, another spill of your tears, another bead of precum down your shaft, another choked out moan from you.

“Then don’t fucking apologise!” She is smiling through the scream. This absolutely terrifying smile that you think might cost you your life some day.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I’m so sorry for apologising without knowing what I am apologising for.”

She presses her body against yours, a chest-to-chest sensation that feels like touching an open flame despite the thick rope that separates you, or maybe precisely because of it. Her folds naturally find themselves on your cock where they slowly grind. Her hand holds your cheek again, softly caressing the wet and red mess she made of it, and her voice comes in like a velvet blanket millimetres from your lips.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I just wanted to slap you.” Her eyes are shining with the candles’ playful flames, burning into your soul.

You nod weakly, the logic sound and crystal-clear and her lips promising again. Maybe she still doesn’t hate you.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

She pulled back, and you lamented the loss of her heat and her not kissing you. You lost the privilege of feeling her soft lips when you came when you shouldn’t have.

You were lying on the same bed you find yourself on now, it’s always the same bed, and she was bent over you at the waist, toned legs stretching to the floor, naked pussy glistening in the mirror strategically placed behind her. She held eye contact while her godly mouth kissed your sensitive tip and tongue ran down your skin.

“Let’s play a game.” She had whispered around your shaft. “If you come in the next ten seconds, you can’t touch my mouth ever again.”

“Wh-what happens if I don’t, Mistress?”

Mina just laughed, making sure the vibrations are felt through your cock. She didn’t even wait for your answer, hell, it wasn’t even framed as a question. It doesn’t matter. The answer couldn't have been anything other than “Yes, Mistress", breathless and hopeful.

Mina slowly took your whole cock down her throat, her eyes locked on yours the entire time until she kissed your pubis, her legs staying anchored through sheer muscles and grace that only she could possess.

You, however, were split. Do you look at her face and the way your cock disappears into her hot, wet mouth, down her tight and welcoming throat? Or do you look at the mirror and how her juices run down those endless legs?

Her head bobbed, throat letting you go, then squeezing you to create a symphony of the vulgar glugs and squelches.

You felt the pressure building in your core, hours of edging seeking their due, your cock throbbing against her pink lips and moans spilling freely from yours.

“Fuck, Mistress, I… I can’t.” You looked up at the ceiling with a deep breath.

But she wouldn’t let you off the hook so easily. Her nails dug into your stomach, pulling your attention back on her. Her cheeks hollowed with the loud, sloppy sound of your pleasure building.

“Please, Mistress.” Were you begging for her to stop? To continue? To not punish you after? It doesn’t matter. She chooses what happens, what your words mean, where your moans and prayers go.

Her eyes decided then and there that you were going to come. The telltale raise of her eyebrows that she had reserved specifically to send you over the edge more times than you could count. She knew she was going to punish you before she even pretended to give you a choice in participating. It was her choice. Which game you play, when you come, and how you get punished for it. She was judge, jury and executioner. 

Her throat felt your throbs and fingertips your tensing core before the first of your seed spilt into her maw. And then she stopped, pulling her mouth off of you. You leaked helplessly down your shaft, onto your own stomach, for yet another time with her, hips bucking against the same vanilla-scented air that held your moans and cries.

She looked at you with disappointment as if you had a choice, as if you were guilty.

And that’s how you felt. Guilty and undeserving. 

She kissed you one last time, the last time you would ever feel her lips on your skin again. They  were so soft even as her tongue forced itself into your mouth like she owned it.

Because she did.

Cum and sweat and spit filled your mouth, and you could taste the pain she had ripped from your body, giving it back for you to hold. 

She bit your lip one final time, making the trembling pink flesh bleed for her satisfaction, and pulled away with a truly cruel smile.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.” You said through sobs, but she just stood up.

“You know the rules.” Cold and with her back already turned. 

Mina’s folds are now sliding over your cock, mixing her juices with your desperate precum. The warm sensation sends a jolt directly to your ankles, still bound with the cold metal to the bed, and your torso, marked with red streaks of burning skin. Her core flexes with each long drag of her hips over your slick shaft, hands resting on your chest and eyes hungry for your suffering.

“Let’s play a game.” 

Your blood runs cold.

“M-Mistress, I—" 

Another slap. It is already decided.

She doesn’t even offer the rules this time, they don’t matter, just lifts herself up and places your tip at her wet entrance. 

She sinks down the same way she does everything – hard, fast and with zero regard for you.

“FUCK… Fuck, Mistress!”

The sensation is instant and all-consuming. Warm silk with a pulse of its own squeezes your cock from all sides, tip to base. It flutters with the express goal of milking you dry and bringing her pleasure.

Her cervix grinds on your head, drawing the same eights her hips do on yours. Fluids mix where skin connects, her clit throbbing against your soaked abdomen.

“You fill me so well.” Another grind, deeper this time, for punctuation’s sake. “It’s a shame this is the last time.” Her voice is smooth and breath is heavy, and you don’t know if it’s due to your cock or your tears.

“Do you think you or I will miss this more?” She grinds again, your cock feeling every twitch of her silky pussy.

“I will, Mistress. I will miss it forever.” Another harsh slap lands on your wet cheek, and she smiles at the way your cock throbs inside her.

“Finally, a correct answer from you.”

Terrifying. The only rule today is: whatever she wants, goes. Myoi Mina at her most terrifying indeed.

And then she starts moving. Her body bouncing on yours in an even rhythm, revealing no more than half of your cock to the cold air before taking it deep into her suffocating heat again. She squeezes you every time she bottoms out, reminding you how helpless you are under her.

Her slams grow in power with every bounce as if trying to break the mattress through you, the sharp, obscene slaps of wet skin on wet skin slicing through your sobs and her mocking moans.

But it is her eyes that get you again. Fuck the candles, you can see yourself burning in them. Your fate decided the moment they opened this morning.

She keeps riding you with the same brutal pace, punishing you for nothing in particular, only to punish you again after the punishment.

“Mistress, fuck, please…” It’s the same song and dance. Same pathetic words spoken through sobs, filled with dumb, baseless hope, falling on deaf ears.

Same hand on the same cheek. Same burn of your skin. Same heartless hearty laugh. Same squelch and same squeeze on your throbbing cock. 

Same voice, this time breathless and loud enough to pierce to your bones, what sounds awfully a lot like hatred settling there.

“You are my toy. My fucking possession. Mine to break whenever I want to.” Another slap and more sobs. “Am I clear?”

She takes you all the way to the base with a slam and grinds there again, walls massaging your shaft in the telltale rhythm of her orgasm. Bringing you pain has always sent her over the edge better than anything else ever could.

“Yes, Mistress. I am sorry, Mistress.” You are gritting your teeth, fighting the inevitable squeeze of her core. There is this dumb hope in your chest, under her hands, under the rope, under your racing heart that beats just for her, that tells you if you just last long enough, she might have mercy.

“You’re shaking again. Am I that scary?” Breathless and mocking – the voice you hear in your nightmares. The one that wakes you up sweaty and hard like nothing else can.

“Yes, Mistress. You are terrifying today.” You don’t even think about the words, they just spill like a prayer from your wrecked mouth, voice hoarse from screaming.

“Good.”

She lifts herself off you again, leaving just a whisper of your cock still inside her before slamming back down. Her rhythm is slower now, but she takes everything, tip to base in each bounce of her plump ass against your thighs.

On her ascents she rolls her hips, and you scrape her walls. The friction sends your head lolling back, white spots playing where the ceiling should be.

Another slap.

“Eyes on me, bitch. Don’t fucking look away.” A grind on her slam. “Let me see you cry as you come!” Her voice is cold venom. It possesses your thoughts, muscles and spirit.

Through blurred vision, you look at where her body slams into yours with no particular rhythm, it all whatever she decides at the moment.  Shockwaves ripple through her thighs, through her hard abs, and through her soft breasts.

Mina’s irises are gone, left somewhere with your dignity, and you know how she sees you at that moment. You are just a vessel for pain – just how a cup holds water to drown your thirst, you feel pain to feed her pleasure.

“Please, Mistress.” It is barely a whisper, you don’t have the strength for anything more, not with how she knocks the wind out of you. You don’t even know if it’s the force of her hips on yours or the way she looks at you like she wants you dead. You would have to ask.

Her last slam is final, sealing the deal you already agreed to without agreeing to. Your cum floods out of your cock – no matter how hard you squeeze; she squeezes harder. It is the only way it ever could be. Her walls flutter around your sobs, and her moans strangle your shaft. The heat is unbearable, the tight softness cruel to take away. That’s why she is doing it. You will never experience this again.

Her cackle reverberates in your head, filling your skull only with the soud, idea, and feeling of her. Your muscles tense against the unforgiving rope and ice-cold shackles she keeps you in out of convenience. It’s not like you’d resist anyway.

Another slap to bring you back to the mortal realm. Or because she enjoys it. Or because you hate it. Or because you don’t. You’d have to ask her.

She lifts off of you, and your cock flops miserably on your stomach. Thick blobs of your cum mixed with her sweet juices fall onto your skin, her body already rejecting your essence. The cold air attacks immediately, and you can practically feel the vanilla stench sticking to your shaft.

Her deft fingers begin untying the grisly rope that stung you for the past however long she decided. Her eyes pass over the red marks left on your skin, and she whispers something not worthy of your ears, apparently. Your ankles follow, equally red and ruined.

“You know the rules.” Her cold voice comes back again. You won’t be sleeping tonight again.

Maybe ever.

The door closes behind her with that derelict thud that echoes in your head every time you close your eyes. That’s how she leaves you. Every time. Red and bruised and sore and filthy with liquids, choking on thick vanilla and uncontrollable tears. Maybe if you cry loud enough and feel enough pain, she will come back.

But she never does. You know the rules.

You flex your arms, seeing if they work without her in the room to pull the strings. You’re not sure.

You’d have to ask her.

You’ve never been more wrong in your life. Mina was a horror beyond comprehension today.