BDSM Master make me want, no need more....
The way he looks at me when he catches me touching myself—it sends a shiver down my spine that ends between my thighs. I know the rules: no pleasure without his permission, no fingers on my clit unless he says so. But I break them on purpose, lying in bed with my hand slowly gliding under the sheets, imagining his eyes on me. I don’t even try to hide it, leaving the door cracked so he’ll walk in and catch me like he always does. The second he appears, tall and dominant in the doorway, his voice cuts through the silence like a whip: “Did I say you could touch yourself, pet?” I tremble, whispering “No, Sir,” but inside, I’m already smiling—he knows I did it to provoke him. That’s when the real game begins, and I melt into the sheets, knowing exactly what’s coming. He pins my wrists above my head, his grip firm, his breath hot on my neck as he growls, “You love being bad, don’t you? You love being punished.” And I do—I crave it, I live for the way he takes control and ruins me in the best possible way.
He doesn’t slap me or use the flogger tonight—he knows my body too well for that. Instead, he slides two fingers inside me, slow at first, then faster, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes my toes curl. “So wet,” he murmurs, watching my face twist with pleasure. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You wanted me to overstimulate you until you’re sobbing.” I nod, biting my lip to hold back a moan, but he sees right through me. “Don’t you dare hold back,” he commands, adding a third finger, thrusting deep while his thumb circles my clit in tight, relentless circles. I arch off the bed, crying out as the first orgasm crashes over me like a wave, sharp and sudden. He doesn’t let up—he never does—and I feel another building before the first one even fades, my body trembling under his expert touch.
“That’s one,” he says, his voice dark and satisfied as he watches me come apart. “But you’re not done. Not nearly.” He flips me onto my stomach, yanks my hips up, and drives into me from behind, his cock thick and unrelenting. I scream into the pillow, my walls clenching around him as he pounds into me with no mercy. Each thrust pushes me closer to the edge again, and I beg, not to stop, but for more—he knows it, and that only makes him go harder. He reaches around, pinching my clit between his fingers, rolling it roughly as he fucks me deeper, faster. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you shake.” And I do—I explode around him, a second orgasm tearing through me like lightning, followed too quickly by a third, my body convulsing with no chance to recover. Tears stream down my face, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of it all, the way he owns every twitch, every spasm, every desperate moan.
When I finally collapse beneath him, utterly spent, he pulls out slowly, then wraps his arms around me, kissing my shoulder with surprising tenderness. “You’re such a good girl when you’re being punished,” he whispers, and I laugh weakly, still trembling. “Worth every second,” I breathe, snuggling into his chest, my body sore but glowing with satisfaction. He knows I broke the rules on purpose—he always does—but he never calls me out on it. Instead, he gives me exactly what I need: domination, overstimulation, and the kind of pleasure that leaves me speechless. I love being his, I love being used, and I love the way he ruins me again and again. There’s no feeling like being pushed past my limits and still wanting more. And tomorrow? I’ll probably do it all over again, just to feel his hands on me, his cock inside me, his voice commanding me to cum. Because this is our dance, our secret, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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