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Andreas

Her order is my command.

With a wooden chair at my side, I tramp up the stairs and fall into silent steps through the corridor, like if I'm quiet enough, I might be able to hear what she's conspiring. The strain from last night's endless work at the gym is tormenting my muscles, every advance towards the room its own painful burden. It doesn't help that I'd hurled myself at a bar not too long ago, my tongue suffused with the remnants of alcohol.

But I need her body sliding over me, slowly, speedily―however she wants. Then I need her to fuck me until I forget my own name.

I throw open the door and laze into the chair, its armrests cramming me in. A moment later, she emerges from the bathroom, wavy hair curtained around her, flowing down over her chest. She struts towards me, and it's only until she jerks my chin upwards that I realise there are shackles folded into her hand. She'll enact whatever she desires to spite me for my foolishness, and the darkness in her eyes, accentuated by the closed drapes hindering light from shining in, confirms that.

I gulp and remind myself I'm not confined in a space with a hyena.

She glares at my exhausted body lounged into the chair and points to the corner of the room where the long mirror is stationed. "Over there," she orders.

Her feline eyes sharpen on me as I tentatively retreat from the chair and relocate it by the mirror. Then I register what she's seeking: a show of me getting fucked that I have no choice but to watch.

Not exactly sure why, my self-consciousness on my lack of hygiene spikes. "Shit. Oh, no. When did I last shower? Not yesterday. Fuck, definitely not yesterday. The stench of alcohol must spread from me―"

I suck in a breath. A hand lands on each of my shoulders, sliding over my biceps as a seductive voice whispers behind my ear, "I'll shower you."

Once she finishes touching down my arms, my wrists are seized, guided to my back. A sharp click and the frigid contact with metal confirms they've been shackled. With a contemplative look at me, she returns to the bathroom, reappearing a daunting minute later with a thick rope and more restraints. It seems she's discovered my toy box.

The items tumble to the floor, and beside them, she begins to take her own route down by kneeling between my legs provocatively. Her lashes bat, and I get a direct view of the top of her chest. My ankles lock in place with the legs of the chair.

Her fingers travel up my bare thighs, past my abdomen, over to my chest where she uses my shoulders to lift herself up. It doesn't end―the bounding, the temptation, the intimidation. She revolves around the chair, circling me with the rope. It's a snake of polyester fabric slithering around my abdomen, attaching me to the chair before I'm coiled tight like her helpless prey to conquer.

"Such big muscles," she drawls from behind me. Her acrylics scratch lightly at my biceps, my head tilted to the side as she plasters on a mocking pout through the mirror and examines my body. "So big and strong and useless. A powerful boy, aren't you? But you're still going to stay right here and listen to me. To everything I say, even if you know, deep down, these gorgeous arms can tear through the restraints they're in."

She isn't exactly wrong; if circumstances call for it, I can put enough effort into freeing myself. But the uncommon feeling of vulnerability, I must admit, is sniping enthusiasm at my cock.

I'm left in the room alone, her footsteps echoing from the bathroom. My lower body silently implores, yearning for her body on mine. I'd say she's stalling on purpose, to make me suffer and writhe, if not for the sound of items knocking against each other, and then of water running out a tap.

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