Bound to the Bed Frame
The metal was cold. Not enough to hurt — just enough to remind her who was in charge.
She lay on her back, stretched out like a canvas ready to be written on. Her wrists and ankles fastened to the black steel bars of the bed frame, glinting in the dim light like promises whispered in silence. No chance to move. No escape. Only muscle tension and growing desire.
He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to. The way he slid his hand over her body — from her collarbone, down her stomach, to the inside of her thigh — said more than words ever could.
-"Breathe," - he whispered. - "Tonight, you don’t get to choose."
She closed her eyes. Control slipped away from her piece by piece, replaced by something deeper, more primal. Submission wasn’t weakness. It was an act of courage. Because it takes strength to say: "Do whatever you want with me."
His lips touched her neck. First soft, almost tender. Then with teeth. Gentle, teasing bites — as if testing the edge… and pushing it, millimeter by millimeter. His hand slid lower, between her thighs — which couldn’t close, exposed and helpless. Yet so very ready.
-"Can you feel it?" - he asked, sliding two fingers into her — slowly, with deliberate precision.
-"This taste of surrender? It’s beautiful. And wet."
She opened her mouth to answer, but instead, all that came out was a moan. Her whole body trembled with every movement of his. And he didn’t stop. He played her like an instrument, knowing each note better than she did herself.
He lowered himself further. His tongue found the place that pulsed with need. One long, slow lick. Then another… and another — until her hips instinctively tried to rise, greedy for more. But the bonds held firm.
-"You won’t run from what you feel," - he murmured.
-"These restraints aren’t punishment. They’re a blessing. Because now you don’t have to fight. You only have to be ."
Between strokes of pleasure, he reached for something cold. A split second later, she felt the chill on her nipples — metal clamps, tightened firmly, precisely. Pain and pleasure fused in one breath. She cried out. And in that cry, there was no protest.
Only consent.
Consent to let him decide when and how. That every moment without control was a gift. That every pulse in her body proved freedom can be found precisely when you give it up.
He leaned closer again, his breath warm against her ear.
-"Now you’ll come. When I say so. Not before."
And then she understood — the control she gave up was the only ticket to deeper pleasure. The kind that knows no limits.