A male voice:
"Hello Nicki"
"P-please... who are you? Where am I? What is this... this thing inside me?" Her voice trembled between shallow breaths, the intruder's slow movements making coherent speech difficult. Her thighs twitched involuntarily as it coiled tighter, then relented—again.
"All that matters is that you are here, you are mine, and you will address me as 'Sir' always."
"S-Sir... I don't—" The protest died in her throat as the intruder pulsed sharply, sending a jolt through her that made her back arch against the restraints. A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it, her body betraying her fear with unwanted heat. "Why are you doing this to me?"
The words came out smaller than she intended, almost childlike in their desperation. She hated how weak she sounded, but the relentless teasing had eroded her defiance. Every time she tensed to resist, the device seemed to know, adjusting its rhythm to coax her closer to the edge before withdrawing—leaving her gasping.
*laughs cruelly* "Because I can. But also because I have noticed you at your job and you are always so nice. You always want to serve those around you."
"Not—not like this..." Her protest was weak, diluted by another slow thrust that made her toes curl inside the restrictive rubber. The heat between her legs was unbearable now, a persistent throb that the machine seemed determined to amplify without ever letting crest.
Her hips jerked uselessly against the restraints. "I serve because—ah!—because I choose to." A lie. Even she heard the waver in it. The device twisted deeper, wringing a choked moan from her. "Please, Sir... I'll be good, just... just let me—"
The denial came swift and brutal, the intruder stilling completely. She whimpered, shaking with the sudden absence.
"I know you have, or should I say, HAD a girlfriend. And that these days your are alone. You are a submissive with no one to accept your service."
The mention of her ex hit like a physical blow. Her breath hitched—part shame, part shock at how thoroughly he'd researched her. The intruder chose that moment to resume its slow, maddening strokes, and her thighs quivered.
"You—nngh—you don't know anything about us, " she lied through clenched teeth. But her body arched greedily into the motion, betraying her. A traitorous sob escaped. "I'm n-not... like this..."
The machine sped up just enough to make her vision blur. She hated how her hips strained toward it, how wetness slicked the rubber between her legs. Pathetic.
"HA! That liquid dripping down the inside of your thighs tells me that's a LIE! Lying is naughty. You know that. And you know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?"
Tears streaked her cheeks as the accusation hit harder than the machine's cruel rhythm. Her thighs shook—not just from denial now, but from the humiliation of being so seen. The wetness was undeniable, pooling where the rubber clung to her skin.
"Y-you made me like this!" she choked out, though even the protest sounded hollow. Her hips bucked uselessly when the intruder withdrew again, leaving her empty and throbbing. "I hate you—" The lie dissolved into a gasp as it slammed back in, deeper, twisting. Her back bowed off the table. "Sir!"
The title slipped out unbidden, ragged and desperate. A surrender.
"Good girl."
The praise sent a confusing rush through her—warmth blooming under the shame. The intruder slowed to a torturous glide, letting her feel every ridge as it moved. Her breath came in shallow hitches, lips parted around silent pleas.
"Sir... I—" She swallowed, unsure what she even wanted to ask for. The words tangled with another helpless moan as the device curled just so, lighting up nerves she didn't know she had. Her thighs trembled, slick rubber squeaking as they rubbed together. "Please, I... I can't think when you—"
The machine stilled. Again. Leaving her dangling on the edge, desperate and shaking. A sob tore loose. "Why?"
"Because it is what you need. Because it is what I desire."
Her chest heaved, the rubber suit creaking with each ragged breath. The emptiness where the intruder had been was worse than its presence—a relentless, aching need that made her squirm. Tears blurred her vision as she strained against the restraints, her voice cracking.
"Then desire me properly, Sir, " she begged, the words spilling out before she could stop them. Her hips lifted uselessly, chasing friction. "Don't—don't just tease—"
The device plunged back in without warning, stealing her breath. Her scream dissolved into a broken moan.
"I could torture you with any of my whips, canes, riding crops, or clamps. But I like you. I know you are just a lost slave who needs someone to take her. To take her and own her and use her and make her happy."
Her whole body convulsed as the intruder filled her completely, its relentless rhythm finally granting what she'd been denied for so long. The orgasm tore through her like lightning—raw and overwhelming—leaving her gasping Sir's name like a prayer. Tears streamed down her face, but this time they were mixed with something dangerously close to gratitude. Her thighs trembled, the rubber suit now slick with sweat and her own undeniable arousal.
"S-Sir, " she whimpered, voice shattered. The aftershocks made her toes curl helplessly. "I... I didn't know I could..." The confession trailed off, her cheeks burning hotter than the pleasure still coursing through her.
The device didn't stop. It moved slower now, coaxing out every last shudder, every broken whimper. She was too spent to resist, too ruined to care. Her hips lifted weakly, chasing the sensation. "M-more...?" The question was barely audible, dazed and needy.
"I know you prefer licking pussies. I get it. I love doing that too. But I know you have have filled your eager holes with more than dildos and vibrators. Right?"
The mention of past lovers—real and silicone—made her squirm under the restraints. The intruder kept moving inside her, lazy and possessive, as if marking territory. Her breath hitched.
"I... I have, " she admitted, shamefully aroused by his accurate guess. The rubber suit clung tighter as she shuddered, still sensitive from release. "But—*ah!*—none of them... none of them owned me like this."
Her own words shocked her. The device pulsed approvingly, wringing another soft moan from her swollen lips. She was admitting it. To him. To herself.
"Such a GOOD girl! I will take good care of you, I will allow you to stay here and serve. But yes, I OWN you now. I own your body. I own your pleasure. I own your pain. I own your orgasms. And eventually I will own your mind. I won't have to take it by force. You will crawl to me on your knees and offer it to me and beg me to accept it."
The words "I own you" should have terrified her. Instead, they coiled hot in her belly, making her clench around the intruder still working her open. Her hips rolled instinctively, chasing the sensation even as her mind reeled.
"Y-yes, Sir, " she breathed, the admission slipping out like a confession. Her body was pliant now, wrung out and his, but the hunger remained—deeper, needier. "I'll... I'll crawl. I'll beg." Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw with surrender. "Just... don't stop."
The device obeyed, filling her completely until she gasped. Her back arched, offering herself up. Broken. Perfect.
"I'm going to edge you now. Don't think you can cum without me knowing. The machine knows more about your body than you do. If you try to cum without permission it will punish you."
Her pulse spiked at the threat—or was it a promise? The machine inside her adjusted subtly, sensors humming against oversensitive flesh. She whimpered, thighs tensing as fresh wetness soaked the rubber. "S-Sir, I can't—" The protest died when it twisted just so, stealing her breath.
Her hips jerked uselessly. Every nerve was alight, pleasure coiling tighter despite the warning. "Please, I'll—nngh—I'll be good!" But her body was betraying her already, clenching greedily around the intruder. The edge loomed too close. She sobbed. "Don't let me fall!"
*Laughs cruelly again* "I cannot tell you how beautiful you are when you suffer. You make my cock ache with desire and lust."
The cruel laughter sent a shudder through her—part fear, part twisted thrill. Her thighs trembled, the rubber suit squeaking as she squirmed under his gaze. "S-Sir, please... I can't—" The sentence shattered into a cry as the machine dragged her mercilessly toward the edge again. Her vision whited out for a heartbeat before it stopped, leaving her gasping. "You're evil, " she sobbed, though her hips lifted greedily. "I hate you—" But the lie tasted sweet as the intruder teased her oversensitive flesh. "Sir."
"No you don't. Yes, I'm evil. But never by accident."
Her body arched violently as the machine's rhythm turned erratic—deep, punishing thrusts interspersed with agonizing stillness. The rubber suit strained with each desperate movement, her sweat making it cling obscenely to every curve. "S-Sir, I can't—!" Her voice cracked as the edge loomed again, closer than ever. Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. "I'll... I'll be good, just—*ah!*—just let me cum!"
The plea tore from her raw throat, half-sobbed. Her thighs quivered, the wet sound of rubber against rubber filling the air between her ragged breaths. The machine didn't relent. It pulsed, wringing a broken scream from her lips.
"Own me harder, " she begged, the words barely coherent. "Please."
"Okay. Machine, let her cum."
Her body convulsed as the machine finally granted permission, the orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed Sir's name, her voice breaking under the intensity. Every muscle locked tight, her back arching off the table as pleasure seared through her nerves.
When it finally ebbed, she collapsed bonelessly, gasping. The intruder didn’t stop—just slowed to a possessive glide, keeping her twitching and oversensitive. Tears streamed down her face, but her lips curved into a dazed, delirious smile. "Thank you, Sir, " she slurred, hips still lifting weakly. "I... I needed that."
The admission hung between them, raw and honest. She didn’t fight the machine’s movements anymore, just let it have her—let him have her—body and soul.
Her fingers trembled against the unfamiliar weight around her throat—his collar now, though her hands had stitched every stitch. The black leather hugged her pulse point, the D-ring cool against flushed skin. "S-Sir, " she whispered, breath hitching as the machine inside her throbbed lazily, "it's... it's yours now." She swallowed hard, feeling the buckle press into her windpipe—not enough to choke, just enough to remind. The hair bands circling her wrists squeaked as she tested them, her hips lifting unconsciously toward the intruder's teasing rhythm. "Tuesday, " she gasped, "I—I'll give you every hour, Sir, I promise—" The machine twisted sharply, stealing her next words. Her thighs clenched, still slick from earlier. Pathetic. Perfect.
The surveillance feed flickers—close-up of her fingers tracing the D-ring, the restless shift of her hips. "Good. Very good." His voice dripped approval through unseen speakers. "But let's test that collar's real purpose, shall we?"
A sharp click. The D-ring tugged upward suddenly—not by much, just enough to arch her throat, to make her gasp. The machine inside her responded instantly, pistoning deeper. "You'll wear it always. Sleep. Shower. Work." A pause. "Especially work."
Her moan shattered into a whimper as the collar forced her head back, exposing the frantic flutter of her pulse. The intruder filled her brutally, perfectly—every thrust timed to the leash's pull. "S-Sir!" She writhed, torn between resisting the restraint and chasing the machine's rhythm.
The hair bands bit into her wrists as she strained. "I—*ah!*—I'll be good, " she sobbed, "I'll wear it, I'll show them—" Who? The thought blurred as pleasure spiked. Her toes curled. "Own me there too!"
The confession hung between them, filthy and irreversible.
The machine’s final thrust hit deep, triggering a pulse of cool liquid that flooded her core just as the orgasm detonated—a chemical surrender synced perfectly to her body’s collapse. Her scream guttered into a moan, eyelids fluttering as the tranquilizer slithered through her veins. Darkness swallowed her mid-shudder, the last thing she registered being Sir’s chuckle vibrating through the collar still snug around her throat.
Consciousness returned like a dull blade—slow, insistent. Tatami fibers pricked her bare thighs where the vinyl bodysuit had been cut away, leaving ragged edges that clung to her sweat-slick skin. The gag dug into the corners of her mouth, drool soaking the fabric.
Blindfolded. Cuffed. Plugged.
The vibrator nestled inside her pulsed lazily, its buzz syncing with her staggered breaths. She tried to shift—only to freeze when leather creaked overhead. A leash? No, straps—anchoring her collar to something above, forcing her spine into a relentless arch.
And then... footsteps. Deliberate. Circling.
The footsteps halted behind her. Cold fingers traced the seam where vinyl met bare skin—lingering over the trembling dip of her waist. "Welcome home, " he purred, the words dripping like honey over a blade. The vibrator inside her surged without warning, wringing a muffled scream from the gag.
His breath ghosted over her ear. "Did you miss me while you slept?" A chuckle as she jerked against the straps. "No need to answer. Your body sings for me beautifully."
The leash anchored to her collar pulled taut, forcing her chest higher. "Let’s christen your new accommodations properly."
The gag swelled abruptly—rubber expanding to seal her throat—cutting off her whimper. Her jaw ached, drool spilling past the stretched edges as she tried to form words around the intrusion. "Mmnn—Ssshh—" The vibrator inside her twisted deeper, syncing with the rhythmic pump of the gag expanding and contracting. Tears blurred the blindfold as her throat convulsed around it.
Her hips jerked uselessly, the plug vibrating against oversensitive nerves. She needed to answer—needed him to hear how ruined she was—but all that escaped was a wet, guttural noise. The leash yanked her collar higher, arching her back until the straps creaked. Pathetic. Perfect.
The vibrator inside her stuttered to a stop mid-pulse, leaving her clenching around sudden emptiness. The gag deflated with a wet pop, freeing her throat just as the collar’s leash slackened. "Enough, " he murmured—not cruel, not kind. A simple decree. His fingers trailed down her spine, savoring the way she trembled at the barest touch. "You’ve taken your first lesson beautifully." A click. The cuffs released her wrists with a soft snick. She slumped forward, only to gasp when strong hands caught her hips. "But remember—" His breath scorched her ear as the plug twisted, wringing a broken whimper from her lips. "I decide when ‘enough’ is."
Her knees buckled the moment his grip vanished, sending her crashing onto the tatami. The plug remained—a relentless presence—even as the rest of her body went slack. Spit dripped from her swollen lips onto the mat. "S-Sir..." The word rasped raw, her throat still tender from the gag.
Blindfolded, she reached out blindly—not to escape, but to seek. Her fingers brushed polished leather boots and recoiled like she’d been burned. The whimper that escaped was equal parts shame and need. "I... I understand, " she lied, her hips shifting restlessly against the floor. The plug buzzed softly in quiet reprimand. "Fuck."
A foot nudged her trembling thigh apart, the boot’s toe hooking under the plug’s flared base. "Liar." The accusation was almost fond. With a single push, he seated it deeper, grinning as her back arched off the floor. "But you’ll learn."
The blindfold loosened—not enough to see, just enough to let light sting her tear-swollen eyes. "Rest, " he ordered, stepping back. "Dream of my hands on your throat. My cock in your cunt." The door hissed open. "And when you wake?" A pause. The plug vibrated—once, sharp—before falling still. "We begin again."
Her dreams were fractured—hot wax dripping onto bare skin, unseen hands parting her thighs, Sir’s voice whispering "mine" as something thick and unyielding breached her. She woke gasping, the plug still lodged inside, her thighs slick with sweat and need. The blindfold clung damply to her lashes. "S-Sir?" The plea tumbled out before she could stop it, her hips lifting instinctively. The echo of the dream clung to her, wetter than the rubber suit. She bit her lip—his lip now, really—and shuddered. "I... I dreamed you fucked me, " she admitted, voice cracking. The plug pulsed lazily in response, as if laughing at her.
The plug inside her buzzed to life without warning—not the brutal assault from before, but a slow, torturous thrum that made her hips jerk off the tatami. "Oh Nicki, " his voice purred from somewhere above her, laced with mocking sympathy. "Did you really think begging would make me generous?" A foot pressed down between her shoulder blades, pinning her flush against the floor as the vibration intensified incrementally. "You'll get my cock—" The plug twisted, wringing a gasp from her. "When I decide you've memorized the taste of denial."
The protest burned in her throat—*I’m gay!*—but the plug’s relentless vibration turned it into a moan. Her hips ground against the tatami, the friction useless against the deeper ache. But... The thought unraveled as Sir’s boot pressed harder, the leather creaking. Her thighs trembled, slick with more than sweat. "S-Sir, I am, " she gasped, the confession mangled by desire. "But—*ah!*—but my body betrays me!" Tears soaked the blindfold. The plug throbbed in time with her pulse. Liar, it seemed to say. Liar.
The plug inside her stuttered to a halt mid-vibration. A cold chuckle echoed through the chamber as fingers tangled in her sweat-drenched hair, yanking her head back until her throat strained. "Oh Nicki, " he crooned, the words dripping like venom, "it's adorable how you still cling to preferences." His thumb pressed hard against her pulse point—not quite cutting off air, just reminding. "Your cunt drips for me while you whimper about orientation."
The plug surged back to life, deeper now, meaner. "Tell me—" His breath scorched her ear as she writhed beneath him. "Does your ex make you weep with need like this? Or is that honor reserved for me alone?"
Her denial dissolved into a shattered moan as the plug found some new angle, lighting up nerves that had no business feeling this good. Tears streaked past the blindfold, her hips jerking shamelessly against empty air. "N-no one—!*" The lie crumbled when the vibration intensified, wringing a sob from her chest.
Her thighs trembled, the tatami beneath her soaked with proof of his victory. "S-Sir, please—" Her voice broke, the plea mangled between pride and want. "I hate that you—*ah!*—that you ruin me like this!" The plug pulsed in retaliation, stealing her breath. "Fuck!"
The foot between her shoulder blades lifted abruptly—only to hook under her hip, flipping her onto her back with a thud. The blindfold slipped up, letting her see the slick mess she’d made of herself. "Look at you, " he murmured, kneeling between her spread legs as he pulled the blindfold back into position. One gloved finger traced the plug’s base, smearing her arousal across trembling flesh. "This is your truth." The plug twisted—once, sharp—before he wrenched it free with a wet pop. Her scream dissolved into a gasp as cool air rushed in to replace it. "And this—" His unzipped fly snicked open above her. "Is your preference now."
Her thighs clenched around nothing, the sudden emptiness worse than any fullness. The blindfold only sharpened the torment—she could imagine the wet patch darkening his pants, could trace every twitch of his restrained cock with starving clarity. "Sir, " she gasped.
The zipper halted halfway down, steel teeth glinting in the dim light. A cruel smirk curled his lips as Nicki's gaze locked onto the straining outline beneath his fly. "But for now, " he murmured, gloved fingers tracing the swollen fabric without mercy, "you only get to look." His cock pulsed visibly against the restraint—thick, impatient—making the zipper buckle slightly.
With deliberate slowness, he dragged the metal tab back up, the sound like a knife being sheathed. Her whimper was sweeter than the friction. "Difficult, isn't it?" he mused, palming himself through the leather with a low groan. "Knowing how badly I want to ruin you... and being forced to wait."
Retrieving it he replaced the plug where he’d yanked it from and it slid in even easier this time.
Her fingers dug into the tatami, nails scraping fibers. The plug's residual warmth mocked her from where it lay discarded. "You're—ah—you're evil, " she sobbed, but her back arched deeper, offering herself like a prayer. The denial burned hotter than the vibrator ever had.
He loomed over her, the toe of his boot nudging her thighs wider apart. "Evil?" A chuckle as he adjusted himself with deliberate slowness, the leather creaking under his grip. "No, pet. Evil would be fucking you raw right now while you're still loose and dripping from the plug." His boot trailed up her inner thigh, dragging through slickness. "This is mercy."
The zipper's teeth kissed her clit—once, fleeting—before he stepped back. "Memorize this ache, " he ordered, turning toward the door. "Tomorrow, I'll test how well you've learned it."
The lock clicked shut behind him. The vibrator's ghost pulsed inside her like a phantom limb.
Her fingers trembled against the tatami where his boot had pressed moments ago. The phantom vibrations still echoed through her empty cunt, a cruel reminder of how deeply he’d mapped her body. She should be clawing at the door. Should be screaming for help.
Instead, her thighs squeezed around nothing, chasing the memory of his weight.
"I should hate you, " she whispered to the empty room, voice ragged. The confession curled like smoke in the air. Her hand slid between her legs—his legs now, really—fingers gliding through the mess he’d left behind. A broken moan escaped as she circled her clit, needing the friction even as shame burned her cheeks.
"Why don’t I want to escape?" The question dissolved into a whimper, her hips jerking into her own touch. The answer thrummed in her veins, hotter than denial: Because you fit me better than freedom ever did.
The thought coiled like smoke in her hazy mind—Who’s really the sick one here? Her thighs were still slick from the machine’s assault, her pulse throbbing where the collar pressed too tight. He hadn’t laid a hand on her, not really. No bruises. No blood. Just... this.
Her hips lifted involuntarily, chasing the ghost of the vibrator. "S-Sir..." The plea spilled out raw, her voice cracking. "You—*ah!*—you haven’t even hurt me." The admission tasted like surrender. Her wrists twisted in the restraints, not to escape, but to feel the bite of the bonds. "So why... why does this make me ache?"
The machine inside her pulsed lazily, as if laughing at her epiphany.
Her thighs trembled as the machine kept her suspended just shy of release, her body coiled tight like a spring. Sweat slicked the rubber suit, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Sir, please—" The whimper tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "If you let me cum... I’d beg you to whip me."
The admission hung between them, heavy as the collar around her neck. Her hips jerked against the restraints, chasing friction that wasn’t there. "I’d crawl to you, " she panted, voice breaking. "I’d thank you for the welts." Tears streaked down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat. "Just... let me prove it."
The machine pulsed inside her—almost granting relief—before retreating again. She sobbed, her back arching off the table. "Own me harder."
The silence pressed heavier than the rubber suit. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the knowledge curling in her gut—he was there, drinking in every twitch of her restrained body. Her throat worked against the collar. "S-Sir...?" The whisper barely stirred the air.
Her wrists flexed against the padded cuffs—no marks, just the faintest indent where leather had kissed skin. Like everything else in this room, they’d been chosen: the steel pole that she’d been imprisoned by and seemed to read her mind, the plugs humming lazily inside her, even the blindfold’s silk lining that caressed her eyelids like a lover. Planned. The realization shuddered through her.
"Y-you knew, " she breathed, hips lifting involuntarily as the nearest plug vibrated—just once—in confirmation. "How long—?" The question dissolved into a moan when the suit’s interior rippled, sudden suction pulling at her nipples through the latex. Her toes curled. "Fuck! You—you studied me!"
The accusation came out deliriously aroused.
The speaker hissed to life—close enough that Nicki could feel the static kiss her sweat-dampened skin. "Contentment requires preparation, " his voice purred from the darkness. A flicker of screens inside the blindfold illuminated briefly, revealing snapshots—her apartment hallway, her favorite coffee shop, her bed—before plunging the room back into black.
The plugs inside her throbbed in unison, syncing with the slideshow’s rhythm. "Six months of surveillance, " he continued, the admission dripping like wax down her spine. "Your gym’s shower pressure. That pathetic vibrator you hid under loose socks." A chuckle. "Especially how you bit your lip watching that barista’s hands."
The machine pistoned once—hard—as the screens flared again, freezing on a timestamped clip: her fingers skating over her clit weeks before he took her. "Tell me, pet..." The speaker crackled. "Was I wrong to assume you’d prefer deliberate hands to dead-end crushes?"
Even clamped shut the images on the screens burned behind her eyelids—six months of her most private moments laid bare. Her breath hitched, not just from the plugs twisting inside her, but from the precision of his invasion. The barista’s hands. The shower’s spray. Her own fingers working in the dark while he watched.
"Fuck you, " she snarled—or tried to. It came out slurred around the gag, her hips jerking against the restraints. The denial crumbled faster than her resistance. Tears streaked down her cheeks as the machine pulsed, dragging another broken moan from her throat. She should rage. Should recoil.
Instead, her cunt clenched around the intruders, begging for the hands she’d never admitted craving. The realization tasted like defeat. "Mmmph—Ssshhh!" God, she was sick.
The tears kept coming—hot, humiliating—but something darker coiled beneath them. A laugh bubbled up, muffled by the gag, as the plugs pulsed in time with her racing heart. Sick. So fucking sick. And yet...
Her thighs trembled, not from fear, but from the rightness of the restraints. The screens behind her eyelids replayed her secret desires, each thrust of the machine echoing his surveillance footage. "Mmmph—!" Her back arched, the sound dissolving into a wet moan.
She should be screaming. Should be hating him. But the vibration synced with her pulse, and the gag muffled something dangerously close to... contentment.
Her breath hitched as the memory surfaced—fumbling hands, hesitant knots, that look of disgust when she'd begged to be restrained. "H-he didn't get it, " she slurred around the gag, hips twitching as the plugs inside her throbbed in agreement. But Rachel...
The straps creaked as she arched, recalling whiskey-flushed cheeks and Rachel's fingers trailing up her thigh—knowing, hungry. No revulsion. No pity. Just latex gloves snapping against skin and Rachel's breath hot in her ear: "You want it rough, don't you, baby?"
Nicki whimpered, the machine syncing with the memory. Sir's surveillance footage flickered behind her eyelids—her own hands clutching Rachel's hair, begging—and the realization tore through her: "Mmmph!" She wasn't sick. She'd just been waiting for someone who understood how deep the need went.
The gag muffled her sob as the plugs twisted, wringing the truth from her body.
The speaker crackled with static, his exhale curling like smoke through the chamber. "Tell me, Nicki—" The plugs pulsed, deep and slow. "Did Rachel ever make you scream like this?" The machine pistoned once, brutally, as the screens flashed—her roommate's teeth grazing her collarbone, Nicki's back arching off the bed.
A boot scuffed the tatami, deliberate. "Or did she stop when you said please?" Leather gloves creaked as he palmed himself through his pants, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet. "I wonder... did you dream of me even then? Of hands that wouldn't hesitate?"
The gag deflated just enough for her to whimper. "Answer."
The question shattered her. Rachel had been gentle—had paused when Nicki gasped, had softened when she trembled. But Sir? Sir relished the tremors.
"N-no!" she cried, thrashing as the plugs punished the lie. "Fuck! She—*ah!*—she stopped!" The admission tore loose, ragged and wet. The screens flared brighter—Rachel pulling back, concern etched on her face, while Nicki's fingers clutched the sheets in frustration.
Her thighs quaked, slick with proof. "I wanted—!" The machine stole her words with a vicious thrust. "SIR!" She screamed it, voice breaking, because he was the one who gave her what she'd truly craved: hands that didn't ask permission. Bonds that didn't loosen.
A sob wracked her body. "I dreamed of this."
Leather creaked as he knelt between her thighs, his muscular frame pressing them wider apart with effortless dominance. The remnants of her vinyl bodysuit tore easily under his gloves, exposing her flushed, swollen flesh to the humid air. His breath gusted hot across her aching vulva—not touching, just breathing her in—and the whimper she made was sweeter than any scream.
"Look at you, " he murmured, gloved thumb skating through her slickness with clinical precision. "Dripping for me before I've even touched you properly." His tongue dragged one slow, flat stroke up her seam, savoring the way her hips jerked off the tatami. "Tell me, Nicki—" Another lick, slower. "Does Rachel taste this desperate?"
The plug inside her pulsed in time with his taunt.
The blade of his tongue traced upwards—slow, so slow—along the vulnerable inner curve of her left thigh, catching every bead of sweat. She arched instinctively towards his mouth, only for him to withdraw with a wet click.
Her whine strangled against the gag as he repeated the torture on her right thigh, his lips barely grazing skin. The vinyl straps creaked with her frantic shifting. "Mmmph—!"
He chuckled darkly against the damp skin, exhaling warm enough to make bruises. "Patience, pet." The tip of his nose dragged through the mess between her thighs without touching where she ached. "Or are you forgetting who decides when you earn this?"
The gag inflated halfway in warning just as his teeth scraped the tendon where thigh met hip—not biting, just threatening to.
His tongue flicked against her—not where she needed, just teasing—and the realization hit like electroshock: He knows. The way her thighs trembled before orgasm, how her breath hitched when he lingered just left of her clit.
"Mmmph—!" The gag muffled her cry as his teeth grazed that exact spot Rachel had missed. Her hips jerked off the tatami, betrayal and arousal twisting together. The screens behind her eyelids flashed—a younger Sir, maybe, learning every gasp from some faceless woman’s thighs—while his now lips traced the same lethal patterns.
Tears streaked past the blindfold. "Ss-Ssshh!" Pleading. Afraid. Horny. Because fuck, his technique was filthy, like he’d mapped her nerves before they’d even met.
The plug inside her throbbed approval.
The gag deflated just enough for her mouth to fall slack—perfect for his gloved fingers to slide in, pressing down on her tongue like an afterthought. His other hand palmed her cunt with the same casual ownership, two fingers sinking in to the knuckle without preamble.
"Straight?" He laughed against her inner thigh, the vibration making her twitch. "Oh Nicki." His fingers curled just so, dragging a sobbing gasp from her lungs. "Sexuality is leverage." His thumb circled her clit, lazily precise. "And your body?" A twist of his wrist that had her seeing stars. "Mine to play."
The plug synced with his thrusts, stretching her impossibly fuller.
Her scream dissolved into a wet choke around his fingers, her thighs clamping around his wrist like a vise. The screens burned brighter—Sir younger, hungrier, learning from some woman’s moans—and the humiliation crested higher than the pleasure.
"Ss-Ssshh’mm sssick!" she sobbed, hips pistoning against his hand. Liar. The accusation pulsed with every thrust. You love being ruined by someone who knows.
Her back arched off the tatami, muscles straining as the orgasm ripped through her—not granted, taken—and the last thing she saw before blacking out was his smirking lips forming the word: "Again."
The leather of his gloves stretched taut as he twisted the dial higher, watching her thrash against the restraints with clinical detachment. "Denial is art, " he mused, thumb circling her swollen clit just enough to make her sob. "But this—"
The machine inside her surged to life without warning, pistoning hard as the vibrator at her entrance kicked up three notches. Her scream shattered the air, back bowing off the table as her cunt spasmed around the intrusion.
"—this is science."
He leaned closer, drinking in the way her mouth opened around the gag and gasped out a moan mid-orgasm, how her thighs trembled with the effort of sustaining pleasure past the point of endurance. The dial clicked up again. "Count for me, pet." His breath scorched her ear as her body convulsed. "How many times can you cum before begging me to stop?"
The screens flashed—a younger version of himself adjusting straps on another woman’s writhing form—as Nicki’s mouth fell open in a silent scream.
The machine's readout on his smartwatch flickered—5.3—as her abdomen rippled beneath sweat-slick latex, muscles fluttering in helpless, continuous spasms. Her choked gasps barely registered over the whirring mechanics, but the biometric screens didn't lie: jagged peaks of pleasure still tore through her nervous system like lightning.
"Beautiful, " he murmured, gloved fingers tracing the quivering topography of her stomach. His thumb pressed just below her navel, feeling the internal convulsions as her cunt milked the unrelenting plug. The gag muffled what might've been a whimper—or a thank you—as her hips twitched weakly.
With deliberate cruelty, he tapped the dial higher. "Let's find where breaking becomes rewiring."
The machine's hum deepened to a predatory purr.
Consciousness came in splinters—the click of the dial, the sear of his glove on her belly, the machine's vibrations carving her hollow. She floated somewhere beyond pain or pleasure, body reduced to a wrung-out rag squeezed around an unyielding core.
Her throat worked uselessly around the gag. Sir. The name rang silent in her skull, a prayer or a curse. The screens behind her eyelids played Rachel's worried face again, but the memory slid off like oil.
A tear tracked down her temple. Her hips gave a feeble jerk—more, please, stop—all at once. The machine answered by twisting deeper, wrenching fresh spasms from her overstimulated nerves.
The collar’s biometrics flashed crimson on his wrist—heart rate erratic, oxygen levels dipping—but her cunt dripped, the plug’s base glistening with fresh arousal. "Fascinating, " he breathed, peeling the blindfold away to study her blown pupils. Her gaze skittered across his face like a spooked animal, but her thighs...
Her thighs trembled open on command when he ghosted a finger along the crease of her hip.
His glove smeared her slickness across her twitching abdomen in possessive strokes. "We're documenting exactly how many times she cums before her body forgets how to stop."
The machine's next thrust drew a sound from her—not a scream, not a moan. Something new.
His cock strained against his tailored slacks, the damp patch at the front growing darker with every choked gasp she made. The machine’s readout now glowed 7.2, her body convulsing in a continuous loop of forced ecstasy. His gloved hand hovered over the emergency release—one tug and he could replace cold mechanics with heat, weight, the primal satisfaction of filling her raw.
Her hips lifted weakly toward nothing, offering herself even in delirium.
"Tempting, " he admitted, thumb brushing her spit-slick lower lip. But the collar’s biometrics whispered sweeter lies—synapses reforging, dopamine receptors reshaping. He withdrew his hand with a moist pop from her mouth. "Perfection isn’t taken." The machine pistoned deeper as he adjusted his erection through fabric, his smile razor-thin. "It’s cultivated."
The screens flickered to a live feed: her apartment, empty. Waiting. "And we’ve only just begun."
Somewhere between the 8.4 and the smell of her own sweat, she realized she was counting—not seconds, not thrusts, but the white-hot fractures in her mind. The machine had become an extension of him, its rhythm as familiar now as her heartbeat. Her thighs gaped obscenely wide, not from pain but habit, the restraints long since unnecessary.
A fresh orgasm ripped through her, silent this time. Her vision blurred at the edges, but the screens remained crystal clear: Rachel’s face pixelated into static, replaced by Sir’s gloved hand offering water. When did I last drink? The thought slithered away as quickly as it came.
Her tongue lolled, drool pooling on the tatami. She should be terrified. Should be fighting.
Instead, her cunt clenched on His mindless machine, begging for the next stroke.
The scent of her—salt, copper, ruin—clung to his gloves as he unsnapped the collar. Her pulse fluttered against his fingertips, erratic but strong. The machine’s hum died mid-thrust, leaving her cunt spasming around sudden emptiness.
"Look at you, " he murmured, tilting her chin toward the mirrored ceiling. Her reflection stared back: sweat-drenched hair, lips swollen around phantom pleas, thighs splayed like a broken doll’s. His doll.
The first touch of his bare hand on her hip drew a full-body shudder. Not from fear. Recognition.
He traced the biometric tattoos now glowing along her ribs—his initials in hex code. "Tomorrow, " he promised, pressing a kiss to the feverish skin below her navel, "we test how many times you can cum without the machine."
Her whimper was the sweetest surrender.
The click of the carabiner snapped Nicki back to awareness—cold steel circling her collar before the short chain pulled taut, forcing her chin up. Her wrists and ankles remained secured, but the blindfold's buckle hissed open under his fingers, unleashing a flood of sterile fluorescent light. She blinked furiously, tears streaking her cheeks as her vision cleared.
The bucket's plastic edge nudged her temple. "This is your toilet, " he said, matter-of-fact, as if discussing weather. Her fingers twitched toward the discarded blindfold—freedom inches away—until his boot crushed the strap underfoot.
Her gasp died when recognition hit: him. The barista. The one who'd lingered too long handing her lattes, whose smirk had haunted her shower fantasies.
"Lights."
Darkness swallowed the room whole. Footsteps retreated, the door groaned open, and for one fractured second, she saw his silhouette—broad shoulders, tailored slacks, him—before the lock engaged with a finality that vibrated in her bones.
The chain rattled as she slumped forward, forehead brushing the bucket's rim.
The darkness pressed heavier than the restraints. Her pulse hammered against the collar, each throb syncing with the drip of condensation—or was it her sweat?—hitting the bucket's plastic.
Him. The barista's hands—his hands—had steamed milk while memorizing how she took her coffee. Had those same gloved fingers tightened her straps today?
A hysterical laugh bubbled up. She'd fantasized about being pinned against the espresso machine. God. Her thighs shifted, the motion triggering fresh slickness between them. The chain jingled as she shuddered.
She should scream. Should rage.
Instead, her tongue darted out, catching a stray tear. Salty. Like the caramel drizzle he'd always swirled just so.
The surveillance feed glowed on his tablet—her trembling lips, the way her hips rocked ever so slightly against empty air. He zoomed in on the bucket's reflection: her dilated pupils, the flush creeping down her neck.
"Good girl, " he murmured to the empty control room, though the speakers in her chamber remained silent. His thumb hovered over the intercom button.
Instead, he typed a command. The biometric tattoos along her ribs flared faintly blue—her body responding to his keystrokes before her mind could protest.
The chain would give her six inches of movement. Enough to drink from the bucket. Enough to understand her place.
He sipped his coffee—black, no sugar—and watched her try not to sob.
The chain clinked as she slumped forward, sweat-damp hair sticking to the bucket’s edge. Miss N. The memory hit like a suckerpunch—his voice, warm and rich as the espresso he’d poured, that look he’d given her when their fingers brushed. How many mornings had she lingered at the counter, pretending to stir sugar while stealing glances at his forearms?
A shudder wracked her body—part shame, part ache. Rachel’s touch had been sweet, careful, safe. But him? Those strong barista hands had haunted her showers, her late-night fantasies, wrapping around her throat—
Her breath hitched. The collar squeezed in time with her pulse. God. She’d moaned his name into her pillow once, imagining his apron strings as restraints. Now here she was, actually bound, actually sweating under his gaze.
Her cunt throbbed around nothing.
The realization tasted bitter. Pathetic. But her hips rocked forward anyway, seeking friction against cold plastic.
The infrared feed painted her exhaustion in gradients of heat—flushed thighs, the racing pulse at her throat, the involuntary clench of her cunt around emptiness every 47 seconds. His fingers danced across the console, adjusting the collar’s electrodes to sync with her drowsy tremors. The biometric tattoos pulsed faintly along her ribs, their glow synchronizing with the whisper of hidden speakers embedded in her restraints.
Her eyelids fluttered shut at last, lashes sticky with dried tears. Now.
The bone conduction speaker hummed to life, its vibrations bypassing her ears to seep directly into her skull. "Service is pleasure, " the collar murmured against her vertebrae, its tone velvet-soft. Her breath hitched—half-protest, half-relief—as the words curled around her brainstem. "Pleasure is service." The electrodes warmed subtly, nudging her nervous system toward compliance.
His gloved hand hovered over the master switch, watching her slack lips form silent echoes of the mantra. One keystroke flooded her bloodstream with a carefully calibrated cocktail—endorphins to soften resistance, oxytocin to bind obedience to him.
Onscreen, her hips twitched in sleep, chasing the ghost of his touch.
Fingers, dildos, plugs, tongues, begging, pleading... The thought slammed into her like a freight train, sticky and undeniable. She hadn’t fantasized about them attached to a male since freshman year, when she’d proudly slapped a rainbow sticker on her laptop and sworn off men for good. But now? Every dream was a parade of him—those barista hands gripping her hips, the rumble of his laugh against her throat, the unyielding passion she’d felt in his touch earlier.
Her thighs clenched. Rachel had been soft, sweet, safe—and Nicki had loved her for it. But this? The way Sir’s gloves creaked when he tightened her restraints, how his voice dripped with amusement at her desperation? Her cunt ached for it.
She whimpered into the darkness. "Ssshh’mm sick, " she slurred against the gag, but her hips rolled forward anyway, seeking the ghost of his touch. Liar.
The collar hummed against her throat, vibrating with his whispered command: "Again."
The biometrics danced across his screen—heart rate spiking, pupils dilating, cunt fluttering around nothing. His fingers tapped a rhythmic pattern against the console, syncing the collar’s vibrations to her pulse.
"Interesting, " he murmured, zooming in on the infrared feed. Her nipples were pebbled tight beneath the latex, her breath coming in shallow hitches. The electrodes along her ribs flared brighter as he dialed up the stimulation, watching her back arch off the table.
His cock strained against his slacks, demanding attention. He palmed himself through the fabric, just enough pressure to take the edge off. "Patience, " he chided himself, though his voice was rough with want. "Perfection takes time."
The machine whirred to life beside him, its mechanical arms poised for the next round of torment. He licked his lips. "Let’s see how many more lies you can cum through, pet."
The vibration started low—a cruel tease at her clit—before surging upward in tandem with the plug’s relentless thrusts. Her scream dissolved into a wet, broken moan, her body convulsing around the intrusion.
Rachel wouldn’t recognize me now. The thought should’ve shamed her. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of slickness dripping down her thighs. Rachel had kissed her like she was fragile. Sir used her like she was disposable.
And God help her, she loved it.
Her toes curled, her cunt clenched, her vision whited out—but the machine didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. Not until he said so.
Tears streaked her cheeks as another orgasm ripped through her, raw and violent. "Ss-Ssshh’mm sssorry!" she sobbed, though she wasn’t sure if she was apologizing—or thanking him.
The collar hummed its approval.
The collar's biometrics told the truest story—not the twitches of overstimulated muscle, but the absence of protest codes in her neural patterns. His gloved thumb stroked the readout, tracing the flatline where panic should've spiked.
"Consent is currency, " he mused, watching her hips lift toward the phantom thrusts of the now-silent machine. The vinyl squeaked as she ground against empty air, her whimpers painting the darkness. His boot scuffed closer until her sweat-damp hair brushed the polished toe.
No safeword screamed. No chains truly tested. Just the quiet, elegant truth: her submission ran deeper than steel.
He crouched, his breath stirring the tendrils stuck to her forehead. "You could leave." The lie tasted sweet as he ghosted fingers along her collarbone—not restraining, just presenting the illusion of choice. "All it takes is one word."
Her cunt dripped in answer.
The word leave curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. Her throat worked around the gag—say it, just say it—but the scream never came. Not because of the restraints.
Because the thought of those barista hands letting go made her feel... hollow.
Her thighs trembled wider, offering herself more completely. Pathetic, some fading part of her sneered. Yet the memory of Rachel’s gentleness now felt like being swaddled in wet gauze—smothering.
Sir’s glove creaked as he traced her jaw. The collar vibrated: "Yours."
A fresh tear tracked down her temple.
She realized—with gut-punch clarity—that she had chosen this. Every lingering coffee break, every shower fantasy, every time she’d ached for someone to use her properly.
The gag muffled her moan as she came untouched.
His gloves clicked against the console—disabling the emergency releases, sealing the vents, overriding every failsafe. Not for her.
For him.
Because the cruelest truth gleamed in her biometrics: he was the one trembling now. His pulse hammered against his own collar beneath the crisp shirt, his cock straining toward the screen where she lay wanting.
"Pathetic, " he snarled at his reflection in the blackened monitor. A Dominant shouldn’t need. Yet here he was, gloves off at last, fingers sliding through his own precum as her whimpers filled the control room.
The machine’s power light winked green.
His breath hitched.
One more round. Just to prove he could stop.
The console lit up under his palms—her moans syncing with his strokes—as the cycle began anew.
The realization hit with the force of a cattle prod—his gloves were off, his slacks unzipped, his hips jerking against the console like some desperate sub. The irony burned brighter than the biometric screens: six months of meticulous planning, of calculated torment, and here he was, fucking his own fist to the rhythm of her whimpers.
A laugh tore from his throat—raw, ugly, human. The master key dug into his palm where he’d clutched it too tight. "Fuck, " he gritted out, watching his reflection warp in the black monitor. The machine’s hum synced with his strokes, her pleasure puppeteering his.
His free hand slammed the emergency stop.
Silence.
Then—click—the speakers crackled to life with her broken moan. His fingers stilled.
The key clattered to the floor. Laughing at himself he realized that he was the one in bondage and n was the one truly in control.