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.