I’m stretched open the way he tied me. Hips forced wide, knees bent, thighs pressed to my body, and my wrists shackled to my ankles. My cunt still pulses around the emptiness where his fingers have abandoned me, and my ass is still trying to regain its shape. I bite around the ball gag sealing me shut, trying not to drown on my own drool, as the last spasm of my orgasm has me rattling the restraints of the spreader bar between my knees.

“Good girl,” he moans into my thigh, and I’m not sure if I hate him or love him more than ever.

I hiss through the gag, not even sure if I’m trying to find my breath again, or if I’m trying to curse him.

I’m blind.

He blindfolded me first and left me nothing but sensation. My skin is on fire, and everywhere he touches burns with need, as if every follicle is asking to cum. My tits ache for his touch, and the clamps on my nipples keep them painfully erect and tuned to my want.

I am need.

All of me is needy, and I wish he’d touch me again. Or breathe on me. Or help me, God—fuck me the way I need to be fucked.

My cunt is the center of everything, and I can feel her leaking down my butt crack. My clit throbs, making each beat of my heart and each flood of my pulse the kind of torment you beg for—merciless, claiming, and utterly devouring. I want his fingers back inside me, I want him to stuff my ass with two of them—maybe three—and curl them up against the two he should fuck my cunt with. 

Or better yet, shove his cock in me. I want him to. It doesn’t matter if it’s my cunt or my ass, I just need him to. I need. I need.

I need to cum.

Again.

There’s a silence outside my body that feels raw beneath the noise inside me. The more I try to escape the loudness tearing through me, the further I pull myself open.

His weight shifts, and I sense him beside me. I feel his gaze upon me. Maybe he’s making sure I can’t get anywhere, perhaps he’s admiring how far he’s stretched me, but likely, he’s just taking pride in the mess he’s made of me. The wet of me. The drool spilling from the corners of my mouth, the sweat clinging to my body, the flood my pussy is spilling.

His breath is on my face, and I wish he could kiss me. I wish I could suck his tongue and tell him to fuck me. 

He licks my cheek and finds my ear.

“Mine,” he whispers, fully knowing what it does to me.

And still, he refuses to touch me.

Then, I feel how he smiles.

It feels like the kind of smile I should fear, the kind of smile that lets me know he’s just remembered something and plans to act on it. The kind of smile that makes me clench around the emptiness filling my cunt to the point of despair.

My words are muffled in the gag. All I can do is stay stretched and open, and trust his mercy.

He’s not always a merciful lover. He knows all my triggers and uses them with intent. 

The word I’m trying to utter is please. I just wonder if it’s followed by do or don’t.

He stretches over me—cock-heavy and warm—and I wish I could touch him. Suck him. Do anything but tense in need, ache with want, and stretch hopelessly in my restraints. There is a tease of his touch, fingers grazing my chest as he finds the chain between the clamps and pulls. It’s not a hard or violent tug, but as with everything else he’s done to me, it’s slow and intentional. It’s sweet at first, when he pulls the kind of pain from my nipples I never knew I wanted, but turns unbearable before he eases again. My cunt is a treacherous whore, welcoming the pain as a gift.

And then he’s gone, and the heat of him against my skin fades and leaves me sick with longing.

He exhales, then shifts slightly again.

“You’re not going to like this,” he murmurs, “but you’re going to love it.”

It’s my right shoulder first, closest to the weight of him, and it’s torment. The feathers brush lightly, but it feels like they leave a trail of fire behind them as he teases every inch of my skin before reaching my throat.

Don’t, I think, but he’ll never listen.

And I? I don’t try to pull away or protest, but stretch my head back, baring my throat to him. 

He follows the line of my jaw—patiently slow, cruelly intentional—and traces my cheek right under the blindfold. I gasp at the sensation of feathers across the bridge of my nose, and hate that I like it. He finds my left shoulder stirring with anticipation. 

His cruelty continues, tracing the insides of my arm. I gasp into the ball as he draws a vicious circle inside the crook of my elbow that leaves me itching for fuck in a way I’ve never wanted it. Maybe it is mercy when he continues down the numbness of my arm, toward my wrist.

I gasp again.

Don’t touch my feet! Don’t touch my feet!

He pauses at my wrist, and my breath stops. My cunt thumps a slow beat, a stubbornly steady and patient grind that feels like Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game. He can do anything he wants, and what I want is for him to ruin me. 

But he doesn’t. He just holds me there for too long and not long enough. I finally exhale when he follows the curve of my calf, thinking it’s a blessing.

When he reaches the hollow of my knee, I realize it’s not.

Fuck! I scream, but all he hears is me gagging on rubber.

I know how smug his smile is as he watches my back lift underneath me, stretching me even more open. My entire cunt pulses, and the drip turns into a flow. I don’t even know if I’m fucking cumming or imagining it.

The feathers trail my thigh, the entire length of me, and the further down he goes, the tighter I clench. 

But the fucker only traces the curve of my ass, then up again. He avoids my cunt. He ignores it completely. And I cry.

He can’t see my tears behind the blindfold—maybe if he did, he’d show mercy. 

I don’t want mercy. I want to cum. I want to cum so badly, I want to throw up. 

I’m sick with need, I’ve told him many times.

But never like this. All of me are wires running hot and attached to a bomb with a faulty timer; anything can set me off. But he? He’s careful not to. He just keeps me there, suspended between stupid need and cold denial.

I hope he’s hard. I hope his cock is hurting with need. All he has to do is stick it in me, and I’ll unravel and fall into the perfect destruction. And he knows it. He fucking knows it.

I scream when he teases the curve behind my knee, and exhale slobber when he moves up. My calf is numb from the lack of blood flow, from being held in an impossible lock for too long. It feels like a blessing. Maybe he’s done. Maybe—

I’m stupid.

He pauses so intentionally, I catch up.

No.

No, no, no.

No!

But he doesn’t care.

I try to kick when the feathers kiss the instep of my foot. I try to scream. I try to tell him to stop. 

Not my feet!

But he doesn’t care.

I brace. I hold on. I tense. 

My toes! I can…I can deal with my toes.

And maybe he cares. He stops.

His hand grips my ankle, but he stops.

I feel myself fall back. Relax. Breathe.

“No, babe,” he says, low and certain, soft spoken in a way that lets me know I’ve lost. “We’re not done. Yet.”

Don’t, I try. Please, don’t.

But he doesn’t care.

He dusts the sole of my foot, and I feel sanity escape me. I twitch motionlessly, I arch involuntarily, and I wish it to be over. I try to kick, I try to scream, but end up laughing helplessly into the rubber ball, drowning in my own drool. I wish orgasm would claim me and make everything disappear. Maybe once he reaches my heel, he will finally stop. Maybe he’ll release me and fuck me. 

Fuck me.

Please.

But no. I realize too late. He no longer uses the feathers, but the sharp end of the handle. The ball of my heel—

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
His mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness. –Lamentations 3:22-23.

He pulls a slow, straight line to the soft of my foot, and something needs to let go. I cry, I feel the blindfold turn wet. I feel insanity take hold of me. I tense so hard, everything aches, and then? I die.

For anyone who has died has been freed from sin. –Romans 6:7

I let go.

I feel the trickle, slow at first, so slow it could still be arousal leaking from me. 

No, no, no..

The heat rising in my cheeks feels like shame, but the warmth pooling in the sheets under my ass feels like permission. 

He sucks my toe in his mouth, still trailing a circle at the bottom of my foot, and I feel everything abandon me.

I gush. I piss myself.

And it feels like cumming. It feels like the mercy I’ve begged for. It feels like I’m claimed anew, even as I shower my stomach, soak my own thighs, and drench the sheets below me.

The trickle dies off, but I want more. I could stay like this. I could. I could.

“Flink jente,” he murmurs.

His voice consumes me; still mercilessly soft-spoken as I imagine how his mouth forms the words.

I need to cum.

But he doesn’t fuck me. 

He traces the insides of my thighs with his hands and lets his tongue follow. He licks every drop of me off my skin as if my filth is a gift to be received. He licks my belly and sucks my navel. It shouldn’t turn me on; I should recoil, shut down, and retreat inside myself.

But it’s hot. It’s filthy hot. And I welcome it. All of it.

He licks the entirety of me, from my ass to my clit, and I tremble. I fall apart. I’m so close to ruin, I can taste it in my mouth.

He undoes my right hand, but stops me sternly as I frantically try to rub the orgasm out of myself. Then he releases the left arm. Finally, the undoes the bar between my knees, and I? I fall open for him. Wider and more obscene than the bar had hope of stretching me. He doesn’t unclasp my nipples, and I don’t want him to. Everything is wet, I’m lying in a pool of my own filth, and all I can think about is how much I want him to sink into me.

He’s on top of me.

His cock grinds my clit.

I’m still dying as he undoes the gag and removes my blindfold.

“You know how turned on I get when you cry,” he says before kissing me.

I suck his tongue as he slides into me.

No patient wait for me to open and find his shape, just a steady thrust to find my core. He pushes all the way, and when he fucks me into the mattress, it answers with a wet slosh that coats my thighs anew.

His cock claims every space of me; I can’t tell where he ends or where I begin. 

I spit his tongue out and grind my teeth.

My pussy clenches. I’ve nothing more to lose than inhibition.

“Fuck me,” I growl.

I feel the warmth of my filth seep up my back. Everything’s lit. I feel my legs lift and curl around him.

I am need.

And finally, it consumes me.