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Hi friends! She is finally here (or at least the first half, by popular demand). Thank you all so much for your patience and for the kind words you have all sent in during this period of pause. Honestly, I’m glad I split this part off. She beats chapter 6 with a whopping word count of 19.7K — the new first place for longest chapter! (I think we can all understand why this was split off, now. If I’d kept it as a part of chapter 8, that chapter would have been an insane 37.4K. If I’d kept everything that I wanted to fit into chapter 9 rather than splitting it into 9 and 10, the number would be similar. CRAZY.) I have opened a kofi! Donations are absolutely not necessary, but I highly, highly appreciate it! Warnings for this chapter are filthy, filthy smut. A sprinkle of consensual violence. The cane. Oh, also, the D*ddy word. If you enjoy, feedback is always appreciated!

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE | WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE HERE | kofi here

By the time Harry introduces the wand, he’s thoroughly impressed by Isla’s lack of crying.

He’d expected her to become reduced to tears — some sniffling, at least, with the prolonged exposure. That’s why they’re doing the trial run — a preparation of sorts. Second chances, and all. He’s a really nice guy — a gentleman, he’d say, (…hah), and he was offering the second chance partly because he expected her to cry, at least at first, and mostly because he was rooting for her.

Rooting to indulge in the riches of reward, himself.

But he hadn’t gotten any of that. She hadn’t broken down, sturdy in her composure, despite the fact he’s sure a coating of tears had, at one point or another, settled in a glaze over her irises. He has his suspicions for her sudden, resolute determination. There’s a pretty tempting reward on the line, after all.

Harry holds the wireless wand out to her, stem-first, with his hand wrapped just on the taper below the bulbous head, and his voice carries soft sentiments of encouragement that underlie the teasing tone his words take on. “All ready for the real deal?”

The real deal — that is, withholding her tears (and enduring whatever twist and/or turn he’s gotten riding up beneath his cuff-linked sleeve — which is funny, because those sleeves are all gone, now) for the sake of being granted his cum painting her spongy walls. It’s a prize that dulls other awards. Makes them lackluster in comparison. Isla takes an inhale for courage.

“No,” she tells him eventually, surprised that she’s able to enmesh notes of humor into her voice. She still takes the outstretched wand from the man.

“No?” Harry gnaws into the corner of his peachy mouth. He steps into her space — moral support, and all, she needs it — and tucks a bit of loose tendrils back behind her ear as he assures, his tone soft, “You can do it. I have faith.”

The young woman’s exhale, ridden with woe-is-me-defeat, is shuddery well beyond a dignified tier. It’s pathetic, a little, and she’s sure she’d feel much more embarrassed that she’s unable to hold her bearings over a stick if she wasn’t so tightly wound. The vibrator helps, at first. That always helps. Harry guides her, nudging it to linger just between her thighs, out of bounds, as he keeps eye contact (sort of — and it’s kind of ludicrously impressive, given that he can’t even make her eyes out through the lace. He’s got her pinned with his gaze, honestly).

“Are you going to drop it?”

Isla huffs.

The dominant tells her, pointedly, “Because I’m not keen on the idea of replacing it, if you do, and it breaks.”

“No,” the submissive gripes — steadfast stubbornness breaking through the apprehension, and she eyes him through her mask with narrowed eyes. She watches the visible features of his face, otherwise hidden by latex, quirk with surprised amusement at her apparent irritation.

Isla knows his eyebrows are raised behind rubber, solely off his tone when he teases, “M’only asking for precaution. Should I tape it to your hands?”

“No,” Isla tells him, eventually, with less bite to her words.

Because, wow. Yeah. They’re doing this. And he’s concerned that she’ll drop the wand — concerned enough to offer to tape it to her hands. Patronizing joking aside, she’s perfectly capable of controlling herself, Isla decides. Without his helping hand of sticky bondage tape.

She wants to be brave — she wants resolute valor to paint her demeanor, she wants to be indifferent, she wants to be cool and composed. She certainly doesn’t want to crumble, but all of her prior agenda flies out the window the second that the man meets her eye, and then just …slips to his knees ahead of her. Casually. So nonchalantly, it’s grating, nearly. But she could never be vexed at the sight. Not really.

Instead, she wishes he didn’t have that pesky, rubber hood shrouding him from the neck-up. She wishes that she had the ability to tuck her fingers into his hair. Alas...

Isla sighs. It’s dreamy-sounding, kind of, because then Harry sets his warm touch onto the front of her thighs. Jade flickers back up to meet her face, melting in its apparent traces of composure. And then his chin dips, and his eyes brace ahead, and he presses the tip of his thumb in, between her parted — parting, actually, actively — thighs, just …spreading her a tad, for his gaze, and that’s— that’s.

The young woman restrains the soft moan that aches to slip from her mouth when he takes his thumb back and brushes the pad of it over her clit. Again, his irises flit to her like he’s eager to absorb her reaction. She doesn’t give in, gnawing into her bottom lip like the motion is sustenance for her (wilting) composure. Harry leans forward and pastes his mouth to her thigh. Then, the crease in between, where her thigh and pelvis meet. Her knees nearly give out from below — useless, useless joints with little willpower — when the dominant presses his mouth against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. Her chest falls and her teeth unlatch with the sharp exhale he siphons. It’s just a kiss. Chaste, present and flitting as soon as his lips land, but then his tongue slips out, lax for little firmness, and he swipes out over her, and—

Isla can’t muzzle the desperation that’s torn from her, then. It’s impossible. She’s only a woman, after all, and he’s only fucking Eros with his wet tongue teasing up between her thighs. God, she wants him, she wants him everywhere, she wants him to prop her foot up against his shoulder to delve deeper, she wants him to paste kisses against her inner thigh and then leave a trail of bite marks, like he had the one day. She wants to grind her face against his mouth and feel the dig of the splayed zippers amidst the pure rapture of his warmth, amidst his suckling and prodding, the expanse of his tongue slipping against her, into her, as he swallows his moan around her.

Of course, he doesn’t give her that. He draws his tongue back, and the gentle burst of air she feels against her, instead, is soft mirth slipping from him. He’s amused. She sees in it the twinkling of his gaze, the smile in his eyes when he looks up at her through his lashes. Like proper sadism flourishing.

“Needy girl,” Harry murmurs, plush mouth curling up as he brings his thumb back to glide against her, featherlight, practically.

Her whole rib cage rattles. “Please.”

“Please,” he just mimics — sadism! Flourishing! In the flesh! “I like that word.”

But he peers up at her, all angel-like, when he switches to a forefinger that he slides further. When he nudges up into her with the tip of his digit, it coaxes a garbled sound. He’s pure heaven. Or hell — Isla can’t decide. Especially when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin on her pelvis, right over her clit, and asks, absolutely rhetorically, “Want my cum in here, baby?”

Harry nips at the crease between her cunt and her thigh with his lips as he stuffs his finger further, “Hm?”

Her spongy walls squeeze over him like a vice in give-away. And she’s wet, she’s so wet, already, nearly seeping down his knuckles. To be fair, it’s kind of a silly question, but his mouth quirks at the reaction, nonetheless. All to curb his own groan at her tightness. He leans forward and scrapes over a bit of her thigh with the dull edges of his front teeth — his bottom lip, though, is a soft contrast to the sensation. He nips again, sharper.

“Dripping out of your little hole? Gonna let me fuck it back in with my fingers, after?”

What a — Isla’s breath hitches, and her thighs tremble — silly, fucking question. She’d walk in a fucking backbend, if that’s what he asked of her. Her fingers twitch into fists. Strawberry pink curves up. His own index withdraws. It’s coated with her arousal, glistening under the buttery light, and he draws his tongue along it, first, maintaining this sick, twisted, almost, eye contact with her, like pure torment. And then he wraps his mouth over the digit and sucks. The sight is enough to draw an untouched orgasm from her, nearly. He’s sick. He’s sick, and he’s fucking twisted, and he’s sadism flourishing, in the flesh. He makes an amused, little sound that just has her bathing in his condescension, and then he pops his forefinger out and drags it over the front of her thigh like she’s a rag for his convenience, and that’s just. Fuck.

His hand squeezes over her thigh like she’s a crutch for him too, when he stands — and when he does stand, he sort of towers a bit, just ducking his head and letting her drink in the sight of jade sparkling like emeralds through a rubber slit, and lashes, and zippers. He takes her wrist in his palm — laxened post his ministrations — where the wand dangles weakly, now, and wordlessly nudges it towards her cunt.

Harry advises, once the head’s pressed up between her thighs, “Turn it on.”

She steals a glance below, in lieu of hopelessly fumbling with her thumb, and his mouth quirks at that, too, as the pad of it skims the protruding silicone edges of the button and just …scrabbles over it. Like the seams of her control have gone loose. So, he helps her — like a proper gent. He’s not just going to let her flounder, is he? Harry slides his hand over the wand, like it’s his shaft — which, by the way, his actual cock is just right there, Isla notes as passively as she can — and takes her thumb below his, guiding it to press over the switch. The toy rumbles alive.

“Any setting you’d like, sweetheart. Whatever gets you there,” the dominant instructs softly, and Isla flips it, instantly, onto a higher buzz that practically has every molecule she’s composed of vibrating. Her mouth parts on the sudden influx of pleasure, and when the man winds around her, the tip of his cock — hard, by the way — brushes against her hip. In passing. This is all…

…all…

It feels much more purposeful when he ducks his chin and tucks it up over her shoulder, when his hardness presses against her backside and grazes the small of her back. The split second mental image of his cum painting the dimples in her back graces the forefront of her mind, then. Which is debauchery all in itself.

“Feeling good?” Harry murmurs against the shell of her ear, trailing one of his palms up her abdomen to tweak a nipple.

Buzzing fills the silent void of pause between his question and her answer. It comes, eventually, post shuddery breaths and a garbled sound that rolls from her mouth.

“Yes, Sir,” Isla hums, all small and withering in resolve. Her lips part for a gasp when he pinches harder, and that sends a vivid wave of bliss straight down to where the toy rumbles. Pleasure unfolds like pulsing bursts of color on a dark canvas. Harry presses harder. When his nails dig in a smidge, and she’s clenching on nothing, riding the wave, the young woman grits her teeth and manages out a strained, “Thank you, Sir.”

Like a placating bid for mercy. Except she doesn’t want mercy — not at all. And Harry doesn’t give it to her. He speaks against the shell of her ear, all low and sultry, and keeps his hold, sending a steady course of pain through her chest.

“Thank you. That’s proper sweet. What are you thanking me for?”

“For— for making me…” her words melt into a breathy huff, on the verge, nearly, already, it seems, when he rolls his thumb over the bud. “God.”

And she can hear the smile in his murmur, then, is the thing. When he tells her, his cadence all quiet and devilish with mirthy condescension, “I didn’t do all that.”

All Isla can manage is a shuddery sigh — she doesn’t even have it in her to make an attempt at a quippy retort.

“So what are you thanking me for,” when he draws the cane over her hip, the even pace of her breathing stifles and morphs into something closer to erratic, “sweetheart?”

The dominant sponges a soft kiss to her neck, just below her ear, lips lingering in a way that allows her to bask in his hum, in his lips moving with the soft dialogue, “Hm? What are you thanking me for, Little Peitho?”

“Thank you—“ there’s a tremble to her words, despite the resolute quality of her voice. Blatantly feigned courage. Her chest rises on her inhale. He brushes over her flesh with the cane, and it’s like the sweetest caress. Isla’s head hangs with the expiration of her admission, released in a breath, “—for making me feel good, Sir.”

That last little Sir carries it all — gives telltales of the weight, of the discomfort, of the fear that comes with doing this, for her. Of opening herself up to this. Harry doesn’t sink his teeth into the sentiment. But he does nip with his mouth over her skin, and then smushes his lips to her neck and inhales. He inhales the scent of her skin, sweet traces of perfume she’s dabbed beside her nape, the scent of her hair, all floral and clean. He inhales her like she’s a line of cocaine, and he’s craving.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles into her skin, and nips again, with his cushiony lips. “You’re not mouthy at all today, for me, are you? All sweet, actually. S’it the toy? I give you a little buzz, and you’re all nice. Is that it?”

He can hear her huff through her nostrils, can practically sense the way her hands twitch over the shaft of the wand when he raises the cane and presses it to her abdomen in a diagonal line.

“Or is it this?”

It’s sort of miraculous that she doesn’t drop the vibrator, Isla thinks. Maybe he was right. Instead, she squeezes over the stem of it and screws her eyes shut. And even still, with the wood brushing over her skin, and the vibrator rumbling between her thighs, and his lips glued to the side of her throat, arousal is the most prominent sensation. The mixer for the fear. It thrums through her veins, interweaving with the wave of apprehension, coiling together and spiraling through the tubes linked by her circulatory system.

“Is it making you nervous?” she hears him mumble against her flesh, and though his tone is soothing — gentle, in its blatant tease, it has chills racing down the back of her neck from her nape.

“…Sir.”

It’s obvious, it’s so painfully — almost literally — obvious, that yes, the big, mean stick is not her best friend. That, yes, she’s shaking in her boots over, essentially, a sturdy twig, but it’s like— it’s like he wants to hear her say it. Wants to draw whatever she’s bottling up out, wants her to acknowledge and succumb to the apprehension, to the discomfort, to the fear. If only for a little while — enough to let it in, and then crowd it back out once it realizes there’s nothing to sink its teeth into. No good reason, no valid reason for her to fear.

That’s a sweet take that puts him in a far better light than typical. Maybe a more authentic interpretation would put more emphasis on the way his eyebrows draw together at that blatant protest in her cadence, the way his plush mouth curls up, a tad, against her skin. It’d be more appropriate to shed light on his devilish nature, the teasing she knows must outweigh the former, if it’s a motive.

But when the young woman makes a worried little sound, muzzled by the seal of her mouth, the dominant unhooks his chin and withdraws.

“Hey.”

His brows are pinched together, now, like, actually, but Isla can’t see all that with her lovely angle, and his brow-shrouding disguise, and all.

“Hey — I’m not gonna hurt you with it, pet,” Harry promises — a soft croon of assurance, “This is about making good associations, right?” He prods, emphasizing by squeezing at her hip when she doesn’t give him an immediate, verbal response, “Right?”

Isla chin dips and shifts in a nod accompanied by a hum. Her lips still press together like talking is a precipice to cry. Harry frowns.

“Words,” the dominant coaxes.

A second of lull. A little sigh.

“Yes, Sir,” Isla tells him, eventually, her voice small like her resolution.

His tongue peeks out and glides, where the young woman can’t see, and he dips his mouth back to her ear to murmur—

“Good—“

The young woman can’t stifle her gasp when his hand slips up the staircase of her ribcage, when it fondles over her breast for a moment, when the pads of his fingers trail higher and roll a nipple between a gentle, tantalizing grasp.

“—associations—“

The sensation sends pleasure trickling, weaving through her system and pulsing through the bud between her thighs, the bliss of the vibrator against her clit tenfold under the attention. And his smooth baritone, low in a coo against her skin, the cane rubbing over her stomach, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear—

“That’s what we're here for,” the man tells her, and then he ducks his chin to draw a stripe from the base of her neck back to her ear, capturing her lobe between his teeth as the tips of her fingers work over her chest.

Isla nearly rolls her head back against him. She clenches on nothing, sure she’s slick and dripping down her inner thighs.

“Just here to make you feel good,” the dominant draws the pad of his thumb back and forth over her nipple as if to emphasize the statement. And he’s so …sultry— just his voice, even. Isla could listen to him talk on and on about the mechanics of a creating no. 2 pencils, if he’d just speak against her ear all soft-spoken and heady, like that. She’d touch herself to the history behind graphite, if he’d share it with that tone.

But he doesn’t talk about no. 2 pencils. He doesn’t talk about the softness of graphite cores and their impact on shade, he doesn’t discuss the history of pencil factories. Instead, he does so much worse. So, so much worse.

He calls off a list of all the wonderful, absolutely sordid intentions he seemingly has for the night.

“Gonna make you cum,” his plush mouth ghosts against her skin, “Gonna clean you up with my tongue, a bit, after—“

That’s— okay. Yeah. That— Isla makes an audible sound she’d otherwise be embarrassed over. And, like clockwork, he feeds into it. But Isla’s too wise to expect otherwise, and, honestly, far past caring how needy and brainless his affections make her feel.

“Desperate, little thing, all drenched for me, aren’t you?” Harry goads, and then he questions, (actually — he puts a question-mark-esque tone onto some purely rhetorical filth), in a sweeter, quieter tone, “You want my mouth between those pretty thighs, baby?”

And the sound that Isla lets out in response to that, in any other circumstance, would incite pure shame.

“Yeah? I know, I know. Just need me to take care of it all for you,” his confession — soft, as he tucks her ear back with his cheek — nearly carries the same underlying notes of desperation that radiate from her. His statement is muffled with the thrum of blood in her head and the way his cheek presses to her ear. “Wanna taste you so bad.”

This is blasphemy; it’s raw, unadulterated filth, and reaction he culls, just from the suggestion, just from the want in his heady inflection, shouldn’t be so intense. This is outrageous. Her whole stomach is in knots, pleasure weaving.

“And then what do you get if you don’t cry?” Harry prompts after a second, and it’s honestly the most glorious blessing, the fact that he doesn’t expect her to give him a coherent response. Because thinking thoughts is all sort of a mushy, unreliable process from there. “Get my cock, don’t you?” her chest rolls at the reminder of reward, a low, deep murmur.

“Get my cum.”

A pause. A whimper. An amused sound, from him. And then something soft-spoken, dripping with so much condescension she’s nearly doused in it.

“Want me to fill you up? Get you all messy again, after?”

It’s not a premeditated notion; what happens next. It’s actually got a sort of a …chaotic energy to it, considering they haven’t discussed that. And it feels out of the blue, even for her, because she hasn’t called anyone that, since Dan Sever — who had a kind of preference. It’s sort of expected, when he says things like want my mouth between those pretty thighs and fill you up, get you all messy again after. It’s a no brainer. It grows and looms over her — the give — consuming, and it creeps up her throat before she has half a mind to bridle it. And when she says it, she sounds absolutely wrecked.

“Daddy…”

For a moment, Harry is quiet. He’s warm and firm against her, and his fingertips twitch over her chest. But he’s quiet, is the thing, as if letting the title sink in and process.

Because that’s — yeah. That one sounds nice. He hasn’t heard that one in a while, and never from Isla. But it sounds so pretty falling from her mouth. It wakes something in him, something hungry and desperate and sharp. Daddy.

And if Isla had nearly half the shame she’d harbored at the start of the scene, before things got all misty and warm with his dumb …unintended sex-hypnosis… well then maybe she’d feel more shame! (Sidenote: like, why are his hands so big, and powerful, and warm, and why does he croon into her ear all patronizing and low, like that? It’s debauched. SEX. HYPNOTIST — Scratch the unintended, he’s beyond self aware. This feels like a war tactic).

If Isla had any sort of shame, or sober, un-sex-hypnotized (by him! Heathen!) train of thought, then maybe she’d think of the possibility that there could be negative repercussions. That maybe he just liked Sir or Master (as he’d inclined upon introductions during their first scene in the White Room). Maybe Daddy wasn’t his thing. Maybe she’d just, like, killed the scene. Then, maybe little pinpricks of anxiety and shame would bud in her chest.

But she’s not ashamed.

Instead, she whines, unabashed, when the dominant pauses his hedonic ministrations — as if it’s totally normal to suddenly switch up honorifics, mid-scene, and teem into undiscussed territory.

And on the topic, the way she rolls her chest forward, into his stifled touch — that gesture solidifies the whole, no shame basis.

“Please—“

Her speech morphs and garbles, when he pinches in harder. To be expected. Ish.

“Stop whining,” Eros chastises, his tone hard and …all …daddy. It’s making her rabid. Feral. Her head is spinning. She’s dizzy. The wand rumbles loudly in the silence as her breath catches in her throat, and it’s the only thing grounding her before the man says, “Is that how you get what you want?”

No. Evidently.

Isla presses her lips together and takes a shallow breath in through her nose. She’s sure the man can feel her heartbeat, pulsing in desperation, from where the pads of his fingers lie. Her chest heaves under his mean touch.

“If you want Daddy to do something,” the dominant says against the shell of her ear, in a tone headier than prior — as if it’s possible, “you use your words. So, what is it that you want?”

The young woman restrains the garbled sound that aches to escape. Instead, she breathes out, needy for him in a way that riles that humiliated little piece of her. But when the man just waits, tugging at her nipple between a carefully calculated, harsh touch, all she can manage is another, “Daddy.”

It’s a miracle that she’s thrown a lifeline. Anything otherwise is like treading through molasses.

“Want daddy to clean you up, and then get you all messy again?”

“Yes,” Isla breathes, letting her head roll back against him as he takes his touch away.

And Harry lets it happen, nipping at her neck — newly exposed in a manner that allows him the access — and beckoning, “Say it.”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, with a little more bite, that firm, daddy tone of voice Isla’s grown well-acquainted with. “Say you want Daddy to clean you up with his tongue, and then get you all messy again with his cum.”

The toy vibrates on such a perfect setting between her sticky thighs, and his filthy dialogue scores into her so deep and settles, and his breath ghosts over her skin as his lips lurk, and she smells him, his cologne, all rugged sandalwood and tantalizing musk and softer notes, all around her. For a moment, she just basks in it, flesh for his use. That’s what she wants, that’s all she wants, she just wants him to use her however the dominant deems fit, upon a whim. And then his teeth nip harder and he beckons, stern, “Say it, Peitho.”

“Want— want you to clean me up with your tongue… and make me messy again with your cum, Daddy,” the young woman finally manages out, her eyes screwed shut behind lacy fabric, patterned and swirling.

And Harry could watch this show all day — listen to this music for hours on end, the sound of her begging for filthy things from him with interludes of Daddy, glazed in desperation. The admission is pure music, settling into his ears and sinking in behind his skull as craving coils in the trench of his tummy. He lets the cane slip and rest at his side, lax in his touch, and bats her hands (and the wand) away with the opposite. The response he gets is one the man has learned to expect — it’s sadistically tyrannical, he’s aware, granting her pleasure and then opting to rip it away altogether. He doesn’t even bother reprimanding Isla when she puts up what can barely be deemed a fight and whines.

“Show me. Show me how soaked you are,” Harry coaxes, a hunger coating the syllables, “Just wanna touch, baby.”

So she gives. Of course she gives — what other option is there, when he’s ghosting his breath over the artery in her neck and his hands just wanna touch, baby? And when Isla withdraws the toy, still buzzing relentlessly at that delicious pace, she leaves her neck craned back as Harry grazes her clit with the pad of his middle finger. It’s so sensitive, she’s so sensitive from the vibrator, and then he slips his digits, his index and middle, on either side of her clit, just prodding between her thighs, towards her hole. Like he’s avoiding her clit; like he’s doing it with purpose. Of course it’s with purpose. Isla sinks into him.

“Shit, baby, so wet.”

It’s as if he’s taunting her, the young woman thinks, miserably. Because now the vibrator is gone, and his touch only skims the sides of where she needs him most, slipping through her arousal and gathering it, and she wants more. Needs more. More, more, more — a greedy mantra behind her skull.

The dominant withdraws. She feels his touch slink up from between her legs until it's gone altogether, and whatever mewl preps in the chamber is garbled as sticky fingers nudge into her strawberry mouth.

“See what a needy girl you are?” Eros teases.

The weight of his fingers on her tongue, stiff in surprise, draws another muffled moan from her.

“Is all this for Daddy?”

And the answer is easy. Yes. An overwhelming green light. The young woman’s throat bobs, all craned, with a swallow, as his fingers press further, further against her tongue, further into her mouth, until Isla all can sense is herself and his fingers. Herself on his fingers. But the answer is harder to verbalize, her mouth stuffed with his slick digits, than it is to acknowledge it. She makes a sound around him, muffled.

“Are you trying to tell me something, baby?” Harry prods, the corners of his mouth buckling, cheeky, when he nudges in further and the tips nearly stroke over the back of her tongue. He peers around, taking a good look at the showcase, because he knows the sight of Isla Cleery choking on his fingers is one for the books. “Hm? Daddy told you to use your words.”

Her throat bobs again. The feel of her mouth, warm and wet over his hand, is enough to have his tummy frothing, warmth pulsating through him, his cock bobbing against her. His lashline narrows and Harry tells her, voice hard and quiet, right against her ear, “Don’t fucking gag.”

That’s a threat — it’s definitely a threat of some sort or another, and even as this realization dawns upon Isla, she can’t exactly help reflex when the pads of his digits prod and coax it from her. But even still, as she chokes on his digits and sees, in her peripherals, his irises glinting through his lashes, Isla has no shame. When he pulls them out, slippery with spit, he gives her just enough of a window to cough and gasp before he’s running them over her parted, swollen lips, her cheeks, her chin, catching on the bottom-most hem of her lace.

“You are so,” Harry daubs her skin with her own saliva, her raspberry lips smushing against his palm with every motion of his wrist, “fucking filthy. Aren’t you? Christ, if you could just see what a filthy whore you are for Daddy...”

If only. If Isla could see him like this, his fingers covered in her drool, smearing it over her lips and her chin before slipping to her throat and squeezing, arms rippling with muscle, and jade alive with flecks of ravenous hunger…

The young woman doesn’t have too long to contemplate over the visual, because she gasps as his warm palm falls away from her throat and the cane clatters over the concrete. And then there’s a new view to ponder over; the sight of him on his knees, ahead of her, all tanned skin, and ink, and eyes twinkling beneath lashes, and cum gutters — he’s got a V sharp enough to cut, even from her view. Christ.

She nearly drops the vibrator (still actively fucking buzzing, by the way) when he presses kisses over her thighs and blinks up at her, with lengthy lashes that’d add an innocuous touch to, literally, anyone else, “Gonna give Daddy a little taste?”

And the thing is, it sounds even better flying off his lips, the honorific. Daddy, in his delicious cadence, smooth like molasses and deep, and she thinks, yes. A taste. A four course meal. Whatever his libido hungers for, she’ll grant with no complaint. He drags his tongue over her thigh, and she pulses in the vale.

When Harry props her foot up on his own thigh, sturdy and warm with taut muscle, only to find her arousal flooding a bit down her inner thighs, his lashes flutter like wings batting. The groan that crawls up his chest and climbs up his throat is carnal. His hand is still covered with her drool, and it digs into her flesh to keep her in place. The man runs the tip of his forefinger through the shiny mess, over her cunt, his brows pinched and his jaw slack a bit, and then runs the same, single, digit from her leaky hole to the hood of her clit. Peitho’s whole body twitches at that, and her toes curl against his thigh, maybe looking for escape, maybe hoping to anchor. His opposite hand slips from her calf to the back of her knee, making the decision for her. Also happens to ensure she doesn’t sway off balance — handy little maneuver, there. Dual purpose. But then he just keeps running his finger over her cunt, just all the way up to the hood of her clit… all the way down to just beneath her gushing entrance.

“So pretty, such a pretty, little pussy,” sounds like a comment that slips from him, unintended, quiet like a mental appraisal that’s not meant for her ears to hear.

But Isla does hear it, and it lights that fire ablaze, licking at her innards with want. The dominant takes two digits, rubbing them along either side of her clit again, purposefully avoidant to see her writhe a bit, his strawberry mouth slack in apparent bliss at the sight of the arousal gathering in the V between his fingers. Just as he’d done the first time, Harry spreads her lips with his middle and index, the muted raspberry of his bottom lip teeth-swollen into a more vibrant shade. A pleased, little moan plucks at his vocal chords from the sight. Wickedly, the man leans forward, strawberry mouth puckered, and blows over her clit. The current of cold air, teasing beyond fair measures, coaxes Isla’s entire body to jolt with a cry — but Eros has never played fair. Her foot twitches over his thigh. Jade flickers up.

And dirty, mean Mr. Eros sounds absolutely on the brink of wrecked when he states, “Gonna be a good girl and stay still for Daddy?”

The little hnngh that plucks at her vocal chords and suffuses through the cracks of gritted teeth isn’t exactly a whine, but Harry pinches at her inner thigh until she cries out again and nods, wordlessly.

“Wanna make you messy,” he affirms, eyes twinkling up at her through shadows of rubber, like his whole apparent mission isn’t an active work in progress — like her wetness seeping isn’t viable proof, “Wanna watch it gush, cause you can’t hold it all in. Wanna give you so much.”

She watches him tuck his fingers into his mouth and suck, a twinkle glinting over flinty jade in a way that suggests wicked mirth. And then he brings his fingers, soaked, back to her cunt and stuffs a middle finger into her, until her own swollen lips fall open on a groan.

“Gonna be a good girl? Make me proud?”

He squeezes at the back of her knee until Isla grinds forward and grits out a strained, “Yes,” to please him. To make him proud. Anything, everything.

But it’s not pleasing — apparently — because the dominant keeps his finger still, sunk in to the last ridge of knuckle and prompts, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir—“ her cadence stutters and melts off into a silent gape when he pulls the digit out and smacks her between parted, sticky thighs, instead. More than once. Enough times to where her chin is ducked and a pleading mewl escapes her.

“What happened to the other one? I liked that one,” it’s ludicrous, that way he can contrast the tone of his dialogue as something so playful against the way he’s slapping her cunt.

Every smack punches small jolts of her tummy, cants of her hips — against his palm, away. Another murky decision. Right or left. Green or Red.

“You’re—“ Isla manages, through sputtery laughter, wincing when he smacks again, his pupils jolting from his own hand to her face, “hitting me.”

In response, the man pauses his ministrations and gives her a look. Pure endorphins mask as courage when she tacks on, after a moment of (smart, on her part, though it cancels out since she decides to make the quip, anyways) hesitation, “…Why would I give you what you like?”

When Harry blinks up at her and sits all the way back on his haunches, features creased teasingly to show the bizarre nature of her statement, it culls another peal of nervous giggles from her. It’d be a valid point — in any other circumstance.

It wasn’t a punishment — it was for fun. Fun for him, mostly, because coaxing surprised, little squeaks from her is easily his favorite pastime. But if she wants to play it like that, then—

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” the dominant hardens his hold over the back of her knee and plants another slap. Isla twitches and groans, so he gives her another, “No. I get it now.”

“Please—“

“Don’t you think,” another blow that smarts, “it’d be wiser to give me what I want, in your predicament?”

She grunts girlishly, hissing and jolting when Eros gives her another and pauses for just enough of a window to have the submissive’s chest heaving as she catches her breath. The leg planted against him trembles, straining from her toes, all the way up to her hip.

“Like, if I was in your position, I’d go, ‘Yes, Daddy.’ But you—“ her hips flinch and draw away in preparation, but the hold he’s got over the back of her knee holds her open (and balanced), “Do the opposite. Always make it harder on yourself, don’t you?”

Isla cries out on the delayed blow. She’s changed her mind. He’s not a gentleman, at all.

“Why you choose that route, darling,” he siphons another sharp cry, but he knows it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as she lets on, and the man pauses to shrug theatrically, “Who knows.”

“This isn’t— fair!”

Harry pauses, the cushiony pink of his lips curling up in amusement, “What’s not fair?”

And the young woman takes the generous break in his unprovoked violence to reason, sharply, “You’re going to make me cry!”

The dominant’s smirk is absolutely devilish. “I thought you liked to cry.”

Because there’s no gentleman without gentle and man, and while the devil on his haunches, at her feet, is the latter, there’s absolutely nothing gentle about the ache his handprint incites.

“Crying, enjoying,” Harry reminds, drawing upon the words from their first sit-down and chucking them at her patronizingly, “Isn’t that what you told me?”

“That’s different!” Isla argues indignantly. She’s thankful for the pause, and she knows she’s still gushing steadily between her splayed thighs. Harry seems to pick up on the same tidbit of observation, a crude little smile playing over his mouth while his pupils linger.

“What’s different? You’re soaked.”

“But I’m not allowed to cry,” Isla protests, shifting her hips hopelessly from his wandering gaze. Harry’s mirth is a huff expelled from his nostrils as he stifles the desperate motion, deftly.

“And whoever told you that?”

“You did!” the submissive squawks incredulously. Her answer coaxes Harry’s eyebrows to pinch.

He denies, mouth twitching playfully, “I didn’t tell you that.”

“Yes you did—“

“Is a facial really a punishment?” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes light-heartedly, “Because last I recall, you enjoyed that, too.”

“No— but,” she rocks forward, her muscles settling into a familiar, welcomed sort of ache, and she admits, her voice smaller, “I want the other thing.”

Harry cranes his neck back, laughter bubbling at the confession. Isla thinks this isn’t a laughing matter, whatsoever. Her foot is still glued to the top of his thigh, thanks to his unwavering grip. If it wasn’t, she’d probably kick him back, square in the chest, for laughing.

The man focuses back onto her, sighing, and Isla’s sure the contrast of his soft smile against the rubber hood (and the circumstances) would leave her with whiplash, if she had the opportunity to witness his smiley face in its full glory, “Then it’d be much smarter for you to do things my way, wouldn’t it?”

“With—“ she’s still honed on that tidbit of a revelation, her brain working on overdrive to process, “…What were we talking about?”

Harry almost snorts.

“Honorifics.”

“Sir,” Isla supplies almost instantly, not quite willing to give.

Harry tuts. He’s still smiley, amused as he shakes his head and strikes her again, this time catching her off guard with an open-palmed blow to her inner thigh; the one that’s posed out. It’s easier access. Isla winces.

“That didn’t hurt,” the dominant drawls, unimpressed.

Isla balls her fists, wordless, teeth gritted in preparation.

Harry blinks, eyes glinting through his lashes as he encourages her to give, “Would you like it to?”

“No.”

He even gives her an out with no physical encouragement. “No, what?”

“No, I wouldn’t like it to hurt,” Isla gripes.

She cries out at the smack beside the other, on her thigh, like she doesn’t expect a twinning handprint at the pushback. Silly.

His mouth curls up, and he tells her, voice low, “You’re a dirty, little liar.”

Isla gnaws into her lip, and watches his tongue swipe over his lips, her heart hammering behind her ribcage.

“Y’know how I know? Because you just—“ jade winds back onto her thigh as he aims and delivers again, “—keep—“ another smack, “—coming back to the pain.”

And he’s right. Whether it’s the pain of her unrequited …emotional mess, toggling back and forth between his masked form and the smiley real estate agent, juggling opposing worlds only to rein in, eventually, what she’s sure will be an inevitable heartbreak. Whether it’s venturing back to Indulge, where she knows it’ll hurt most, where fingerprints leave her mottled for days after, or whether he means it only at a surface level-depth — the resistance to give in, in their play, the headstrong resilience against his authority. It’s true. Isla always comes back for more.

Instead of slapping again, the dominant opts for a different route. He takes the pads of his digits, drawing them up the skin of her thigh like he means to caress over the pinkish bruising, and just when Isla sinks in to bask, he trails lower and pinches a smidge higher than her knee, on the inner part. Eros blinks. He grins lewdly, all pillowy lips.

His voice is all sugar, an open door beckoning towards reward, and he coaxes, “You know how to make me stop. Just one, little word. You know the one.”

Isla does. He doesn’t mean red, though she’s half determined to wait out to her absolute wits end and resort to that, rather than let him pinch what he wants out of her. But she’s well aware he’d stop far before it got to that point, and she’s also well aware they’d be doing this for much too long before she genuinely reached that precipice, herself. And he knows it, too, watching her from the depths of the zippered shadows. Like he’s ogling her weigh the options, vision x-rayed through her skull to watch cogs turn. He pinches again, testingly, this time higher. Isla winces, hanging her head with the welcomed pinpricks of pain blooming from the afflicted area, flourishing and zapping electrons to careen through her nervous system, in milliseconds, as it registers. And her whole body flourishes as pain and pleasure enmesh, like misfires.

He’s right. Isla will always come back to the pain, with a hunger like no other. Harry’s mouth crooks. The pads of his digits dig into her skin harder.

“Okay— okay!” Isla jumps as he lets her go and gives a little smack to her reddened inner thigh, like a final reward, of sorts, as he witnesses the priorly resilient walls crumble, “Okay— Daddy.”

Harry sits back, all smug in triumph, “S’that easy.”

He pets over the handprints on her inner thighs, ruddy welts left behind by his touch, like tracks, and then smears his fingers through her sopping cunt until her chest rolls and her head lolls back.

“You always welt so pretty. So easy, too,” he murmurs, thumbing, with the hand that’d clasped over the back of her knee, against the sizable imprint of his fingers on her thigh. It has her tummy coiling and warmth drifting lower. Isla nearly melts into the floor.

Like he knows he’ll get too stuck on admiring her marks, Harry tears his gaze away and settles her foot back onto the floor. Then, he winds a grip over the wrist that has the hand the wand’s still rumbling in, and he guides the vibrating head back to her core. Slowly. Isla’s entire nervous system nearly combusts with the reintroduction of pure pleasure.

“Are you crying?”

“No,” Isla denies, despite the sheen of moisture coating her irises. Being pinched over sensitive expanses of skin will do that, just a friendly F-Y-I.

But Harry can’t see evidence of her fib — only that she’s flustered and that her (typically clear, milky and soft) chest’s morphed with a pinkish tinge, much like the hues that peek out at him from between her shaky legs. Full, eye-covering masks are excellent at deterring suspicion — just another friendly F-Y-I.

“Good. You’ve got a running chance, still, then.”

Prick. Like he’s not eager for it, too.

Isla doesn’t know how he’s gotten to stand behind her, when he presses against her back. She doesn’t know when he’s plucked up the cane from the floor — only that his free hand slides up over her diaphragm as it expands, and the cane brushes over her tits. It’s all kind of a blur of rapture, eyes slipped shut and sunk into the pleasure that pulses and radiates from the wand.

“Same rules apply,” the dominant unwinds the warmth of his arm from her waist to tuck hair behind the ear he apparently intends to murmur filth into, “you ask for permission. And you’ll tell me when you’re getting close.”

The young woman gnaws into her lip apprehensively. Her eyes burn. She opens them, and stares at the doorknob, just as he’d encouraged. Harry swipes with the horrid thing over her pebbling nipples. It’s one of the lengthy, handlebar ones, black, and — Isla blows out a breath. “Okay.”

She stares at that stupid doorknob until her eyelashes flutter, and her tummy tenses up. Unlike what the submissive had assumed, Harry stays fairly quiet. His soft breaths tickle her neck, and his free hand grazes over her abdomen, drawing caresses from her throat to her pelvis, fingertips skimming lines around her belly button that contrast the terror of the cane when it climbs up and down the ridges of her ribcage like a staircase. When it gets to the point where Isla eyelids are slipping, vision weakly honed on the doorknob and cane all but forgotten in the whirlwind of bliss clambering through her, when her legs strain and shake as rapture builds, she follows his instructions.

“I’m— oh— close,” the young woman tells him, her brows weaving together in a pinch behind lacy fabric.

That’s when Harry takes it upon himself to clue her in, a low promise against her ear that’s emphasized by the cane drawing back, “M’gonna hit you with it one—” unfaltering when her moan comes as a shuddery whimper, “—time when you cum. Yes?”

The submissive, cradled by his arm, whines and rocks on the balls of her feet. His brows furrow. “Hey — hey.”

Harry draws the cane away from her skin, pressing his left palm to her sternum in the same area where the implement had prior become settled, his lips smushing against her ear and tucking it back.

“S’just a little stick. Twig, practically,” the man assures, sticking his own hand out and whacking over the palm in a showcase. Christ, Isla jolts at the swoosh of it through the air, alone, despite the way her eyes are screwed shut and her lips sealed to bridle a whimper. “It’s not bad.”

Well now she’s just staving off the pleasure, warring against her own body as the last twine of composure writhes to sink into bliss. There’s a moment in which the dominant pauses, just assessing her state with a serious kind of inquisitiveness, head cocked and turned a tad over Isla’s shoulder.

“Baby, I wouldn’t hurt you,” Harry promises, the same palm he’d smacked seconds prior smoothing over her tummy. She’s still gnawing on her own lips. “Have I ever hurt you? Really hurt you, something you couldn’t take, something you didn’t like, in the end?”

And he hasn’t. Even with a shoddy inability to process her thoughts, Isla knows that there’s no need to rake back through her memories, because the instance simply doesn’t exist. He hurts her, sure. With his hands, with toys, with mean fingertips, and nippy teeth, and a stern gaze with a hard swing, but she’s asked for that, verbally. All of it. She’d asked him to punish her when she ran sixteen minutes late, because she ached for that bite of pain. She’d asked him to make it hurt after a particularly difficult day, because she wanted the release, and she remembers it like it was yesterday. Open to imbibe and accept — pleaded for it at times, even. And he’s never taken anything too far, never pushed past an unspoken boundary that can only be learned with experience and a one-on-one, intimate timeframe with her body.

He’s careful, he’s caring, he pauses when he feels she needs a pause, even when she doesn’t recognize it herself.

The young woman shakes her head. “No.”

The toy buzzes. Isla clenches hopelessly over nothing, and pulls the wand back, just a smidge, before she teeters over the precipice. Her heart thunders wildly in her chest. This all feels like it’s moving so fast.

“And I never would,” Harry reaffirms, as she sinks back against him, his flinty jade serious and sincere, “Never on purpose. And I promise you, sweetheart, it’s not as horrible as you think it is.”

Isla weighs her options. He’s warm against her, firm, and the insides of her thighs still smart horribly, but she’s just as wrecked with arousal as she’d been when his hand was stamping its print against her skin. Harry bites into his bottom lip, and then sponges a kiss to her shoulder. And he knows that Isla’s well aware he’d never hurt her, never intentionally, and he knows that she could take one, and that the pain would be as intense as a radiating, little pinch. He’s well aware that she can take it. But he’d never want her to think that she has to do something she’s uncomfortable with, that she has to bend backwards, past her boundaries, to please him. He doesn’t want her to think he’d ever be disappointed by her unwillingness to do something that brought her discomfort. Because that’s not what this was about. Ever.

So he asks her, offering an out in a moment of serious deliberation, genuinely open to any response, “D’you wanna stop?” He tacks on, in a tone that’s gentle but never lacks that dominating quality (that seems to be innate), “I’d never be disappointed if something makes you uncomfortable, love.”

Isla ponders over his suggestion, though there’s no need. The wand still buzzes, just out of reach from where she needs it most.

“No, I— I want to.”

“You want to?”

Isla comes back to the pain. Isla asks for it again. Because she likes the freedom — the ability to dangle over the cliff, hair wild and frenzied, and she likes that Harry gives her that, pulling her back before she plummets.

“I want you… to hit me with the cane.”

Harry pauses, pursing his strawberry mouth. His hand is still over her, cupped over the vale of her waist, unmoving. “You’re sure?”

Meekly, she nods, and tells him with far more determination in her tone than her body language lets on, “I want it. Please,” despite every muscle and nerve ending in her practically quivering against the notion.

And who is Harry to deny her of something she asks for? So sweetly, too. Especially when the aftermath involves another pretty mark to admire.

When he glues his mouth to her shoulder in a kiss, blotting chaste dots with his lips up the line to the nook of her neck, and Isla brings the buzzing head of the wand back between her thighs, the pleasure builds as if it’d never become pulled away to begin with.

One time. One strike. She could handle it. She has handled it, plenty, and she reminds herself of that fact when Harry wraps over her from behind, like a blanket (of warm… sturdy muscle…), grazing the side of the cane over her hip. She’d even been open to it in a fearplay scenario, because it amps the endorphins — sends the adrenaline skyrocketing and has her insides coiling up with nervous tension that inevitably snaps.

This was different. Because with that pop of pressure, she’d dissipate into tears. And it felt good, usually. It felt good to get everything out. But she couldn’t cry, not here. It was the entire purpose of their little game.

“What’s the matter?” the dominant prods, cadence gentle, before he takes the lobe of her ear between his teeth and presses lightly.

“I’m—“

Nervous? Scared? Terrified? It all sounds silly, even behind her skull, because he’s right. It’s just a stupid stick. A stupid stick that’s stuck its way into her memoirs with a nasty association, a stick with bite, but a stick, nonetheless.

Harry doesn’t need her to say. He pets over her side, the corners of his mouth jolting at the way she twitches, and the nip of his teeth sharpens a smidge before he pulls off and assures, “I know, baby, but you’re fine. That’s why we’re doing this, right? That’s why you asked me to? So I can show you that there’s nothing to be scared of.”

Isla blows out another breath. Yes. Yeah. That seems to be the agreement. Before the dominant can move forward — however he chooses — with their little game, the young woman, again, pulls the vibrator back just a smidge for a clear train of thought. Well. Clearer.

“Wait— where —?” Isla pauses, shifting on her feet, and the man knows what she means, filling the gaps of her sentence, even with a lack of verbalizing, on her part.

Isla expects him to be at least a little miffed at her repetitious need for pause, she expects his exasperation to surface as notes through his tone, in response to the question.

But Harry doesn’t sound annoyed, at all. He takes a moment, but it’s as if he’s deliberating, rather than trying to rein in his frustration. Eventually, he plants a soft kiss to her shoulder, and tells her, “Wherever you’d like, darling. You choose.”

Her choice. So many decisions, so much to contemplate.

“Could,” the cane draws lower, grazing over tensed flesh, “put a pretty, little stripe on the front of your thighs, just here,” the young woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth when he guides the cane in a horizontal back and forth, “Or—“

She gasps as his hand trails higher and fondles, “your tits…”

The dominants pauses, giving a squeeze to the handful, like a parting gift, before he takes a step back, his touch trailing down her side and around. “This one’s always a go-to, as well—“ Isla curls her toes over the concrete flooring when he squeezes at her backside, a cheeky note to his statement, “—innit?”

“But you’d look quite pretty with marks anywhere.”

Isla weighs the variety of options — thighs, tits, bum, pondering over her selection like the weight of it all is a crucial decision. And it sort of is, right? Thigh, tits, bum. Because if he swings standing one way, it’ll land harder, and if he has to swat at another area, he’ll have to stand different, and—

She brings the wand back.

Thighs, tits, bum, thighs, tits, bum, thighstitsbum, thighstitsbum—

“Thighs,” the young woman manages out, her eyes screwed shut behind little fragments of mesh through thicker patterns of black detailing, “the— the front of my thighs.”

There’s traces of frantic desperation to her speech — the bliss climbs and clambers at tenfold speed, until her muscles are taut, and the chill of his breath against the nook in her neck is nearly slithering down the knobs of her spine. Thighs — it’s a frenzied, last second pitch. But she knows she doesn’t want him grazing over the sensitive flesh of her chest, and she doesn’t want him stepping off and holding onto her arm. She wants to feel him, pressed to her back, like a metaphorical anchor of warmth. She wants to feel him there, right with her.

Isla’s heart thunders behind her ribcage like it wants to beat its way out of her, and she doesn’t hear what he croons against the shell of her ear in response, only aware that he’s pressed the cane up over her skin like he’s figuring out a nice spot to lay it in — like he’s gearing up for it, and—

“I— please—“

“Please?” Harry mirrors, brows pinched as he smooths a line over with the implement in preparation. He can see, even in his peripherals, that her jaw is tensed to curb moans and that her neck is straining, the muscles there pulled tight.

The young woman grits her teeth, and then her lips fall open over a stifled, silent moan as the flame of pleasure licks up through from between her sticky thighs. Everything feels tight and heightened, like this moment is the only. It’s a miracle she manages to remember his stupid may rule when she pleads, “May I cum?”

She knows his chin untucks from over her shoulder with the impending crest looming. She knows he murmurs some form of permission. She knows his hand is cradled over her side (and she registers that it’s comforting), and that he’s pressed up behind her, lingering. But it’s sultry beyond belief, in a way that only heightens the bliss, when it clicks that he’s holding onto her, at least partly, so she doesn’t make to jerk away. Like she’s helpless. Helpless to him, his broad, denuded palm splayed over her diaphragm.

She knows that her climax has already begun lapping at her core, that she’s just tipped over the threshold, when it strikes her. It’s pain — it’s pain, and it’s pleasure, and it blends in a harmony that nearly has her knees giving out. She’s aware that she cries out, sharply, in response, but the sound almost feels foreign with the rush in her ears. The ache radiates, almost upon impact, only stuttering behind in pace by milliseconds, and when that sensation hits — that’s when she cries out.

But everything else is just a blur. A blur of pain and pleasure intermingling at the perfect interval, of coos of praise, of words like good girl and that wasn’t so bad, was it, of the same hand that’d kept her trapped, only moments prior, petting down her stomach, slipping over her waist. Of the vibrator being wrangled from her stiff grasp, of her chest rolling with breaths, of her hairline feeling sticky, and the warmth that’d pasted to her retreating, for mere seconds, to stash the implement away.

Of her eyes burning, of her eyelids squeezing over wet irises, of tears trickling down onto the hem and wetting the edge of her mask.

That’s an unfortunate revelation. Isla wills the wet release back, but it’s easier said than done when everything is buzzy, and all she wants is to become cocooned by him. She lets him stroke over her blowsy cheeks with the ridges of his thumbs, her lips pressed together as she attempts to even her breathing to masquerade the influx of emotion when he tips her cheek to rest against his chest.

“See, wasn’t that bad at all, was it, darling?” Harry chimes, expecting the kisses and cuddles — in present terms — to be somewhat short-lived. He expects the corners of her mouth to jolt, to hear some sarcastically playful retort to pluck at her vocal chords and escape to sharpen his softness.

And that’ll be that — they’ll just go on with their game, the fun part.

What he doesn’t expect is for her to nuzzle against an inky swallow in response, wordlessly, to stroke over her hair and then find that her mask is soggy like it veils tears beneath. The pads of his digits prod and pause. And she must know, off that little prod-and-pause alone, that gears are turning in contemplation. Harry could be horribly mean. Not even mean, to be fair — he could just stand by his initial terms. Crying; facial. No crying; …the other thing. The fun thing. As a reward, that she didn’t meet the mark for, not technically. He could stick to his word. Which isn’t even mean, not innately — that’s just called following through.

But it doesn’t take the man much lulled assessing to find that sort of …doesn’t want to follow through on his word. Not in that sense. He doesn’t want to tear that prize from her, not when she’s gone so far and pushed herself, not when she’s entrusted him with her composure. And Harry finds that he kind of expected the outcome, inklings of knowing hanging behind the pride and credulous faith.

“Oh, baby,” the dominant coos, smoothing from the wet hem, over the crest of her cheekbone, down the side of her face, half-expecting her features to crumple as he points it out in acknowledgment, “did you cry a bit?”

Instead, all his statement coaxes is a sigh and a weary, “Sorry.”

“Why don’t you go lie down, for me?” Harry shifts his petting to stray strands of hair, after a contemplative moment, ducking his chin with his murmur, “Hm? Go on.”

He feels the heat of her form ebb with a drowsy kind of uncertainty, on wobbly legs with shining, sticky skin and stiff arms by her sides. He watches her take a few steps, and then pause like she’s deliberating looking back at him. His second, gentle-spoken go on is prepped on the tip of his tongue until she seems to opt against it. Isla makes her way all the way over to the bed, wordlessly, and Harry watches her with his arms crossed over his chest, only taking a few steps forward to tail her right before she turns and shuffles onto the mattress, limbs splaying. The young woman lifts shaking arms to brush trembling hands over her mask — down her temples — and the pink stripe over her thighs, lopsided horizontally, beckons his sight. Isla hears him moving, but her bleary gaze sticks to the ceiling. It’s difficult to feel that she hasn’t disappointed him, that she hasn’t disappointed herself.

Harry’s on his knees at the foot of the bed by the time she tears her eyes away, prompted by the pads of his fingers skimming down her shin. His own gaze is settled lower, on her thigh, and Isla follows the line of his sight. Only a second passes before the same arm stretches forward. The same fingertips brush over a pink welt.

“You were very brave for me,” the dominant’s voice sounds distant — entranced, sort of. Pleased. He makes another swipe over it with his thumb and jade shifts.

Isla gnaws into her lip and doesn’t answer. Harry splays his palms over her thighs — it’s hard not to watch the sturdy muscle of his arms rippling with the motion, but it’s harder to meet his gaze, even if she’s safe behind a mask. He strokes down, and then back up.

“Weren’t you?”

Slowly, her chin bobs, little motions of a nod.

“Of course you were,” her breath catches in her throat when his hands roam higher, when his thumbs dig in, just a smidge, against the sensitive creases between her legs and her cunt. That’s a touch full of implication. Harry caresses back down to her knees, and then back up in smooth, slow movements.

“Y’know how good it makes me feel—“ her chest rolls when he pets back up, and he swipes against the creases again, this time with obvious purpose, as opposed to what could have initially been deemed a mindless touch. It reminds her of how sensitive she is, how raw it all feels post the intensity of her climax. How good it feels to be under his hands, at his whim.

“—when you show me that you trust me?” the man’s irises sparkle through shadows of zippers, a slit loose, on the eyes, of a skin-tight hood. “S’the best feeling in the world, innit?”

And, yeah. It is. Isla can’t concur wholeheartedly on the fragment of his role, not exactly, but she knows that on the opposite end, that feeling of weightless security, the kind of safety where she can just fall back and trust — that’s an amazing feeling.

“That kind of trust is a beautiful thing,” Harry pauses with his touch, resting mid-thigh as he drinks her in, the sight of her, laying there for him, branded with a little stripe for him, raw and pulled apart at the seams for him. And still taking it when his hands creep higher, and his thumb brushes over her clit on the third uptake. For him.

“Let’s me know I do my job proper,” the corners of his mouth buckle as she twitches and squirms in response. So he amends the teasing overstimulation by taking his hands from her skin, altogether, and planting his palms onto the mattress.

Isla lifts her chin a bit when he climbs to rest over her, her thighs nudging apart to make room for his knee on the bed.

“My best girl—“ she’s caught off guard when he shifts his weight over her and utilizes his newly freed hand to squeeze over her cheeks. Even through the mist of her blurry vision, the swirls of lace, and the shadow cast by the angle, Isla can see his cushiony mouth has curled as he jostles her face a tad with his domineering grip. “Aren’t you? So good for me. Always.”

And — not really, the young woman wants to argue, her lips smushed by the degree of his grasp. Not really at all, because there was a task laid out, with clear terms, and she failed. She failed, and that self-imposed reminder has her brows drawing together behind jet fabric.

And Harry has dimples cuing beneath his own disguise. He lets her sit there like that, digits pressed into her skin, until he lets go and his gaze becomes cast to follow the draw of his fingers to her chest. He thumbs over a nipple and her whole body comes alive, shifting on the sheetless mattress beneath him.

“Don’t give these as much attention as I’d like to,” the dominant claims, his sight trained and his fingers winding and his tone like insight of foreshadowing. And it is foreshadowing, because then his fingers tweak, and roll, and tug, gently, before he lets go.

His mouth quirks again, and he slides down her frame. Her eyes follow the way shifts onto a forearm, and draws aimless shapes over her with his fingertips, blunt, short nails grazing in a motion that mimics a sensual rendition of one of those rigged claw machines, or something. Which— the simile is probably the least erotic way to put it, but. Sensual. Aimless. He thumbs a circle over the sensitive, hardened bud, and Isla holds her breath as his vision flickers up to her.

“So sensitive, aren’t you?”

Yes, Isla wants to tell him, very much so, when you’re doing that (it’s like he knows all the buttons to push, and just the way to push them), but she’s sort of been rendered a speechless mess by it all. The man shifts over her again, resting on his elbow so that his other hand is freed, and cups over the underside of her opposite breast and thumbs over that nipple, too. And that’s — Christ, Isla throws her head back, chest arching up into his touch as he grazes, and flicks, and squeezes. And then he shifts again, and she feels something warm and wet — okay. She has to look.

The submissive lifts her head just in time to catch sight of him and his lewd tongue brushing a path up the side of her breast. His eyes are on her, and it’s absolutely filthy, the view only coming second place to the sight of him pasting kisses between her thighs, weeks ago. And then before the tip of it can draw over her nipple, he steers back down and runs another path up, parallel to the first. And then a third time, until she’s chilly with the air over her wet skin. Isla whines. His mouth quirks, and he tweaks the opposite nipples as …scolding? Apology? To make up for the lack of attention to the first? Isla’s not sure. All she’s truly aware of, in this moment, is that his ministrations are making her head spin, and the fact that she’s pulsing with a newfound wave of arousal between her thighs.

Scolding, Isla learns, because instead of giving her what she wants — what she needs, the dominant takes it upon himself to glue open-mouthed, suckling kisses over the soft flesh of her chest, drawing marks to the surface of her skin with his venture. On one, over the side, he spends a particularly lengthy timespan over, and the dull pain of his teeth nipping blends with the sensation of his fingertips tweaking on the opposite breast. Isla squirms until he pulls off to admire the mark — darker, in shade, splotchy and red with flecks of purple in contrast with the collection of prior, weakly pink bruises. And then he finally, finally guides his tongue, wet and warm, in a circle over the hard bud, eye contact and all, before he latches on and sucks, drawing waves of pleasure with the roll of that same, lewd tongue.

Isla is sure she’ll combust. He stays like that for a moment, just laving over her nipple in the enclosure of his mouth and pinching at the opposite, until he pops off and pastes his cheek onto her chest like a fucking pillow. His eyes follow the work of his digits on the opposite breast, mouth crooking with the noises he coaxes as he circles the pad of his forefinger over the hardened flesh. And then his tongue slinks out, lapping, and he seals his mouth over her again. When his teeth graze, just barely, nipping, and he pinches the other between the pad of his thumb and index, Isla arches up into him. She can feel the corners of his mouth jolting.

“So pretty,” Harry declares when he pulls off, cupping either side of her chest and squeezing her tits together. Because the sight of the wan flesh, (obviously) typically shielded from the gaze of sun rays, marred with his bruising kisses — her nipples puffy and swollen from his attention — that’s pretty. He wants to stray, to mingle with his fingers and pry to see if she’s puffy and wet, lower, too, but good things come to those who wait.

Instead, he swipes over the ruddy bloom over the side of her chest, voice nonchalantly carrying that undeniable note of authority, “Should I give you another on the other one, to match?”

She gives a wordless nod, a little jerk of her head, her top front teeth lodged over her bottom lip, and Harry finds he expects it. The fervor of the motion, the way he’s able to see what a frenzied state he’s worked her into just by sucking on her nipples — that causes his mouth to quirk smugly.

But her desperate, “Please,” is just the cherry on top of it all.

“Please?” he mimics, the syllable glazed with more condescension than he even intends, pillowy lips curled up with self-satisfaction (there’s just something that riles him at the evidence he’s managed to work her up). The dominant laves over the pang of humiliation that his tone must wake within her by tacking on, sugar coating his words, “Of course. Asking me so nicely.”

So he gives her another to mirror the first, ducking his head and latching onto an expanse of skin to suck. On the opposite side, he teases and tweaks with the pads of his fingers, just long enough for his teeth to graze like a hickey-hungry vampire, before he pulls off and admires the area where hues have bloomed.

“There we go,” Harry thumbs over the spit-slicked patch, “That’s pretty. Pretty marks for a pretty girl, right?”

My, Isla wants him to say. My pretty girl. His. Instead, he cups her tits together again, squeezing, and drags his tongue, laxed and slow, in a horizontal line from one nipple to the other. Isla can’t curb the wrecked sound that crawls from her mouth at the sight. The man unlatches his grasp from the flesh, and it bounces back into place. When he dips back down, it's to pepper open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, from the empty vale between her tits. Harry stipples them all the way down to her bellybutton, then winds around with his tongue and glides it back up into the space in the center of her ribcage. He peers up at her, eyes glinting with allure, his lashes flutter over the green she’s grown so fond of while he draws aimless shapes with his lips. Like gluing mindless, teasing kisses to her flesh.

And she can’t get enough — the young woman squirms, arches, canting her hips with a subtlety that doesn’t go undetected. Unfortunately. She’d let him draw unfocused shapes with his mouth over her figure for days, let him draw her to the peak of sanity with his teasing touches. Isla’s nearly convinced that’s his aim, when his palm cups over her side to stifle her wriggling.

“Behave,” Harry murmurs, a sharp trace of authority to his warning.

She does her very best — how can she not, when he uses that sultry …dominating bedroom voice with her? It’s practically impossible for any other intention not to splinter into shards, like a crystal glass bowl meeting tile, in response. She behaves all the way through his speckling kisses to the crease of her thigh, on one side, tongue circling, and back up. Then to the opposite, nearly where she’s pulsing, but not quite there. And again, back up, smudging his pink mouth over her tummy in a way that’s an aphrodisiac beyond fathomability.

When he slides his attention down to her thighs, though, that’s a change in pace and a different story. It’s unmarked territory — it’s fresh, it lights her libido alive, and she lets him splay her apart to dot those same, open-mouthed kisses up the skin, there. When he reaches the pink welt, on either side, the dominant drags his tongue over the stripe, and then veers down to grant her inner thighs attention, too. She could cry all over again, Isla thinks, when he directs just enough of his mouth to where she feels the tide pulling in, and then ebbs away when she needs him most.

Harry tuts and tells her, “Stay still,” when she writhes, hips squirming in a way that he can’t ignore. He licks a stripe, vertically, from her knee, nearly to her core. Isla doesn’t stay still, hips arching to guide the motion.

“Poor thing,” the dominant pouts, raking his fingertips, featherlight, down the opposite thigh, on the inner part, and back up, pausing as his touch trails higher and higher. Slower. “Where do you want me? Here?” and when he presses the pad of his forefinger onto her clit, Isla’s only reminded of just how sensitive she still is.

It’s not unpleasurable, by any means, but there’s an overstimulating grating that comes with the motion, initially. One of those that she knows will subside under more of his attention, as bliss builds and outweighs it, but it has her making an mmph through sealed lips, and her hips jolting, just a smidge, nonetheless.

The sound causes the corners of his mouth to buckle.

“Sensitive?” Eros goads with a sadistic sort of amusement interlacing his dialogue. He brings his thumb into the equation to draw circles, pointedly. Her hands ball into fists. He does that for a moment, a hand on her hip to keep her steady at his whim, and then his touch withdraws.

“What’s wrong?” the man teases at the sight of her jaw tensing, his palms back to smoothing lines down her lax, parted thighs, “thought you were sensitive, pet?”

Isla is uncharacteristically quiet, a commonplace retort bridled by clenched teeth behind her lips. Instead of answering, she raises her hips a smidge. Harry makes a sound of mirth, a little hum as his own lips twitch.

“Maybe if you’d stay still,” Harry tells her, mouth still crooked up as he takes a thumb to swipe from her arousal to curve around, trailing beside her clit, “then you’d get what you want. But that’s just my suggestion.”

Her chest heaves. His touch draws away. It settles on her thighs, and then draws back up to thumb into the creases between her thighs and her cunt, once more. It feels dirty — like one of those sordid pornos where the ploy initiates as a massage that ventures into unwholesome territory, the kind that starts with the girl on her stomach with a towel over her bits, and then ends with a thumbnail of the guy’s balls pressed to her chin. Then again, Isla’s not opposed. Though, she’d prefer the variation where it ends with his cock, snug in her cunt to the hilt, and cum oozing with every pump out. But that ship has sailed. It’s another reminder that she’s failed, when Isla thinks about it. Knowing that the result of his touches will likely be the former, rather than the latter.

It’s because of that, then, that she lifts her head off the sheetless mattress a tad and inquires, in a voice full of a desperate-fueled sort of exasperation (that’s much too audacious, and she realizes this after the fact), “What are you doing?”

The young woman swallows at the sight of Eros cocking his head, quick to tack on a Sir. His gaze narrows as a little smile plays over his lips. The curl of his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. Isla squeaks when he pauses his caresses to pinch at one of her thighs and release, in lieu, similarly to how he’d done before.

“Whatever I want. I don’t like that tone, little miss,” there’s light chastisement to his tone — playful nearly, and Isla knows him well enough to gauge that he’s not truly miffed by the snappy degree of her retort. His physical response fucking stings, regardless.

“I just don’t…” Isla’s statement trails away from her, a crease working in between her brows.

“Just don’t…?” the man prods, nudging with his chin, eyebrows raised behind latex, all patronizing and expectant.

“I don’t understand,” the submissive tells him after a moment, her voice small.

His features relax out, and Harry teases, clearly amused, “Which part?”

She supposes that because he wants to is a fair enough reason — she’s used to that. He’s used it time and time again, like its irking counterpart, because I said so. He doesn’t need to explain himself, he just does. Things. All sorts of things, within reason, on a whim. It’s just, well— she’d expected to be guided to her knees, she’d expected his tip to drag over her lips before she was beckoned to open her mouth and stick out her tongue. She’d expected his cum to pain over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, and—

“Don’t you— I thought…—“ Isla pauses, words snubbed out by the (practically) theatrical display of curiosity painting his features. She shifts back on her forearms so she’s raised a bit more, and tells him, simply, “I thought you’d want me to give you head. Or something.”

For a moment, Harry says nothing, just peering at her from the floor, at the foot of the bed where he’s settled. Eventually, he asks, his muted raspberry mouth curving up with a dirty sort of smugness, “Is that what you want to do?”

The young woman’s lips part. Seal together. Part again, seal.

“I want to do whatever you want to do,” Isla tells him after a second, tacking on a quieter, “Sir.”

Languidly, the edges of his mouth curve, “Is that right? Whatever I want?”

Isla nods. How darling. The dominant smirks softly, casting his gaze to her thigh, thoughtfully, until he tells her, “I want you,” and then nudges with his fingertip into the muscle, “to lay there and be quiet, like a good girl. Think you can manage that?”

Amidst her wave of bemusement, Isla nods. A lift and dip of her chin, slow with confusion, at least at first.

“Lovely,” Harry smooths the palm down the expanse of her thigh.

And then he hooks his hands against the backs of her knees and yanks. The bed creaks with the rough motion, and Isla jerks down towards him, her arms splayed for purchase in surprise. His plush mouth shapes a smirk that he shrouds against her skin when he ducks his head, stippling his lips back against her flesh, this time with a starting point on higher ground. With his palms pressed to the side of either thigh, Harry keeps her pressed to the mattress and draws another stripe up with his tongue. And then his mouth creeps higher, blunt ends of teeth scraping tantalizingly up her thigh. His tongue slips over her, dragging horizontally from the top of her thigh to her pelvis, right above her cunt. His eyes flicker up to her face.

If there’s anything Isla has learned in her six-week timespan with the dominant of alluring mystique, it’s that Harry’s got a tendency to be a horrific tease.

Frequently.

He’s practically crafted the menacing tactics into a hobby, whether it be the way he thumbs over her ridges, all slow, or the way he guides the scene with filthy dialogue, aimed to coax antsy desperation. The way he teases her senses with whipping bites and soft touches, the way he winds her up with fingers that turn into harsh smacks. The way he edges with his words, to the way he edges with the pads of his digits, or toys, or his tongue — and his tongue is absolutely no exception. When he slides that same tongue over the hood of her clit and around, delving into where she’s sopping, Isla’s reminded of that fun fact. He draws an exhale from her — the kind that happens after a pause of holding her breath, one that’s obviously a placeholder meant to bridle a far more shameful noise — when he prods in, when he glides it over and exhales warm air against her.

She can see the glint of mischief in his gaze as he works her over, avoiding where she needs him most. Subtly, the young woman shifts her hips. At first, Harry doesn’t seem to pay it any mind. He notices — sure — pupils flickering down to her cunt as he adjusts to work against what she feels is a fairly innocuous motion.

When his tongue trails around and she does it again, though, he presses a firm hand over her thigh and hums out a muffled, “Stay still.”

She doesn’t — of course she doesn’t. Her obedience lasts all of, maybe, a minute — and that’s a generous estimate. Harry expects it, partly. It’s nice to rein the power and receive subservience, but it’s in Isla’s nature to push back, at least at first. He’s half-convinced she’s ingrained with every fiber to fight back against his authority. His personal little brat, crafted to fight every trace of his dominance. All part of their little game. So it’s no surprise when she cants her hips up, after a little while, with far less subtlety.

“Peitho.”

It’s sharp. It’s not sweetheart, it’s not pet, it’s not baby. It’s not darling, or love, or my girl, or little miss. It’s not even little Peitho. It’s direct, with audible dominance, and inklings of frustration leaking through the syllables. Isla adjusts again, like a half-hearted last-ditch effort of disobeying — like the last word, in a way, and finally settles. Harry blinks, the corners of his mouth twitching. She imagines that the rest of his features are steely behind the rubber. The bed dips and rises and dips as he moves his arms. He rests them in between her splayed thighs, against the mattress, and then one hand comes up to tug up the hood of her clit.

“What is it?” Harry prods, raising his eyebrows at her from the foot of the bed, “Where do you want me so bad? Here? Again?”

Isla’s whole body twitches when he utilizes his other hand (his opposite thumb) in swiping over her most tender fragment, honed on where she’s most sensitive. At the twitch of her muscles, the man doubles down.

“Is that it? You’re such a desperate whore that you can’t stay still, when you’re told to stay still? …All because of—“

She makes a choked-off moan when he presses harder into it, drawing circles, “—this?”

It’s like he siphons all the air from her lungs with the little motion, pulling her muscles taut and ridged under the pressure of his touch, as if the circles of his fingertips are tugs on strings of a marionette. Her thighs slip apart further, flesh strained, and his eyes stay pinned on her. It’s overstimulation — all of it. His gaze, unimpressed and passive, but piercing, his touch, causing flames to lick upon her sore embers, a reminder that she’s already been brought to tip over the edge with a buzzing wand that’d practically permeated the marrow of her bones with its vibrations. There’s an undeniable blip of pleasure beneath it all, but it's layered under what makes her want to squirm away. Isla worries her lip with her teeth and shakes when he draws over it, slowly, featherlight with what's barely a fingerpad and mostly the blunt end of his nail.

“What are you whining about? …Isn’t this what you want? You were practically begging for it a minute ago, weren’t you?” Harry tells her, unperturbed by the soft sound that plucks at her vocal chords.

And she was, basically — the young woman can’t deny it. She’d ground her hips up for more, a wordless plea of body language, just like the desperate whore he makes her out to be. Because when he’s tonguing her everywhere but where her body needs him most, yeah, it’s a little more than frustrating, despite the way her nerve endings scream under the newfound attention.

Harry takes the thumb away, dips forward, and latches his mouth around her, sucking harshly to siphon a cry. He doesn’t let up, not when she tightens up and begs, not when she places a hand onto the top of smooth latex, (wishing she could interweave her digits through the soft curls she knows are hidden beneath), nudging at him pathetically. Her neck cranes back, throat arching and chest rolling as his thumb stays settled over the hood, tucking her most sensitive piece out for the torture of his warm mouth.

“It’s too—“ her hand nudges again over the top of the rubber hood, only to find resistance tenfold in strength, before her palm falls away altogether.

In response, the dominant hums over her, an incoherent note of disagreement. When she finishes out her statement, “too much,” chest heaving in little movements, her voice is smaller — symbolism of her give.

“No it’s not,” he’d tell her, if his tongue wasn’t busy rolling over the bud. For now, the vibrations of his hums, notes of his protest layering the sound, do the job.

There’s little complaint Isla can make when the man is drawing shapes between her sticky thighs. It feels practically immoral to be miserable when he toys at her with his mouth, his lips, his tongue — but it’s impossible to lay back and just enjoy when every fiber of her being is screaming at the intensity of the stimulation. He certainly gives her what she asks for, there’s no denying it. The pad of his free thumb slips over her gushing entrance, nudging, not quite pressing in.

“Please,” her head rolls onto her cheek.

By the time his mouth lets up a smidge in its fervor, morphed to languid grazing and tongue slinking to lap lower, meshing with the motion of his thumb, the pleasure has begun to outweigh the discomfort. He slides his tongue up through her, slick with her arousal and his own spit, pressing open mouthed kisses that turn to half-hearted sucks over her cunt, chaste and soft enough to have her craving more, the same manner in which she’d been hungry for it, before, as a desperate whore.

“One more,” he’s beckoning as he stuffs her with a digit and draws circles over her clit with the thumb of his left hand, “Gimme another.”

Like he’s just as hungry for her release. Harry pumps the finger, slowly, thumbing at her seams of composure, and then adds a second digit, curling the pair up expertly against her spongy walls.

Isla crumbles like wet sand in minutes. It doesn’t take long for the fire, although weaker in its intensity than its ravenous elder, to lick up at her and send her trapezing over the edge. Not with his mastered routine, a set switching amongst fingers curling, and thrusting, and a tongue lapping as his lips pucker and envelop. Isla begs, and he gives it to her.

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry groans when she pleas for release, thumb swiping from the hood of her clit to her entrance where he keeps her full, bumping against his digits with each motion, and back up.

She pushes into each sensuous drag, baited by the teasing stroke each time he lingers where he needs her most and ebbed as she swipes away. It’s the ebb that gets her — the tantalizing drag amping the satisfaction that much more, splintering her semblance. Her legs quiver in their frame around him. She clenches on his fingers and vaguely hears him say something like, “That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”

When her hearts racing, pulsing frantically behind its caging of bone on the comedown, she barely has time to lure her floating mind from its aimless bumps over the walls, like an animated DVD screensaver on a TV, before he comes around the bed and digs a knee into the mattress beside her shoulder.

“Get me nice and wet,” Harry tells her, his cock cradled by his fist. Her eyes trail from his pink tip to the ridges of his knuckles weakly, and Isla musters what strength her melty muscles has to lift her head and brace onto her forearms.

His fingers cup the back of her head, digits interweaving into the loose strands at the back of her skull as he guides his hips towards her mouth. The dominant traces her lips with the head, drawing the precum over the pink like a debauched application of lipgloss, and doesn’t hesitate to nudge into her warmth, against her tongue, once the sheen unseals. The weight of him is heavy on her taste buds, and the submissive hollows her cheeks over what’s stuffed into her mouth, dragging her tongue over the underside of his tip to siphon a hiss and a subsequent groan. She’s familiar with this activity; closely familiar. She imagines him pulling out, long fingers cupped over the hilt as milky ribbons shoot out and land like streamers over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, her outstretched tongue. But she doesn’t even get to work her rhythm into a steady bob before he tugs away. A sticky string of spit connects from the head of his cock to her tongue, showcased in bemusement. The man breaks it with his thumb, pressing that against her tongue as a preventive measure to lull her noise of question, before he brings his palm back to his shaft for a couple of twisting tugs.

“Fuck,” Harry huffs out, his tummy shuddering and shoulders hunching into his apparent bliss.

Her jaw is still unhinged a tad in confusion, but then it clicks, and her tongue twitches as she slinks it further for his target, mouth parting wider.

Except it doesn’t click, because a moment later, with Isla’s tongue still dangling out over her bottom lip, awaiting and inviting, the dominant sticks an open palm out ahead of it and breathily instructs, “Spit.”

She puts her tongue back in her mouth. Her lips clamp together, a crease working in between her brows. In response, Harry tugs at the roots on the side of her scalp with his free hand, but the motion is only meant to be hard enough to get her attention.

“Spit,” he tells her again.

So she does. She only blinks a couple more times before her mouth puckers and she ducks her chin, letting her saliva dribble out in a stream into his palm. She half-expects him to stroke the palm over her cheek, her nose, her mouth, in response. He doesn’t. Instead, he brings the palm back to his shaft, cupped carefully in its motion to prevent spillage. The young woman watches him stroke over himself, all the way from tip to shaft and back.

He’s squeezing lightly over himself when he makes his way to the foot of the bed, where her legs are still dangling off, muscles a mush.

“Y’can—“

Isla’s braced arms nearly give helplessly when he hooks his hands over the backs of her knees, once more, and tugs up rather than towards him, so that her hips hover over the bed in his grasp.

“—lay back,” he sighs, mouth quirking up, lopsidedly, at her apparent surprise. It’s mercurial, the way that, in the blink of an eye, that upturned corner of his mouth settles, and his lashes flicker down to veil his irises as he guides his tip towards her entrance.

Isla wriggles half-heartedly when the head of his cock nudges against her — slick and warm — a little afraid to be dropped if he does more as she squawks, “Wait.”

Harry pauses, his palm still splayed over the back of her thigh and his cock twitching in his clasp. His voice is soft and his eyes are serious, flitting to her face at the word — the frantic tone of it, “What is it?”

“I’m—“ Isla sputters over her words, stupefied. Her hips are still raised well over the mattress. She swallows, licking out at her lips. “…Confused.”

“What about?” Harry asks, his chest slow in its rise and fall with his breaths. His fingers twitch against her skin.

Surely he didn’t forget, Isla thinks.

…Or maybe he did.

Maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Maybe she’s opened it and ruined this perfectly good reward, offered to her on a platter with no conditions, his lack of recollection serving as the silver lining to the pinnacle of their night. The young woman bites into her lip, weighing her words carefully. Because if she goes about it the right way, maybe they can just gloss over this little hiccup and proceed. Nevermind, It’s nothing! or Well, I’m just confused, because the terms and conditions of your creampie implied that I don’t cry — those could siphon entirely opposing consequences.

But, no. That just feels wrong.

“I …cried,” Isla confesses, well aware of the possible response her candor could supply. There’s a certain hesitation that her words carry she can only hope the dominant doesn’t pick up on.

“Mm. I know,” Harry responds after a moment, his own cadence laced with bemusement and his grip a little laxer. He does jostle her up and re-secure the grasp, his cock no longer cradled by his palm.

The submissive bridles her balk, her legs winding around his hips loosely.

“But— you said—“

“I know what I said. But,” the tip of his tongue peeks out from between his muted raspberry lips and retreats just as quickly, “you were so brave.” The newly freed palm smooths down the side of her thigh, ungripped, and then it wraps over the back to hold her levitated, steady, “Took everything I gave you. I think that deserves a reward. Don’t you?”

Isla tries to ignore the way the praise incites butterflies to bump around the walls of her tummy.

“I don’t—“ know dies at the back of her throat. She pauses and blinks behind her mask, careful with the enthusiasm of her voice, “If you think so, Sir.”

“Of course, I think so,” Harry tells her earnestly, his grip squeezing over her, as if for emphasis, “You were such a good girl for me, weren’t you?”

The multitude of pinky splotches littering her skin — her inner thighs, from slaps and pinches, to be specific — are pure evidence against that, but she nods, regardless.

“Yeah?” the man coaxes, nudging with his chin, jaw set, just to see her nod up at him, all timid, her ruddy lips, teeth-swollen, and pretty tits, bare.

He casts his gaze down to where they’ll slide together soon, fitted like puzzle pieces, and puckers his lips for spit to slide out and land against her slick core. It lands beside her clit, running down her skin until he takes one of his hands out from under thighs, keeping her steady with one deft grip, and thumbs the saliva up over her hole. By the time his jade irises flicker to her face, Isla feels like all of the air’s been sucked from her lungs, and the organs are just vacuum sealed behind her ribs.

“Gonna let me fuck you, raw?” the dominant murmurs.

His tip strokes over her gushing entrance, smearing spit and arousal as he teases at her with a bare tip. Raw. Gonna let me fuck you, raw. Those are words Isla never would have imagined to fly off his teeth, but the proposal is obviously framed rhetorically. In what world would she say no to the proposition from her Eros? Even his nude tip feels different drawn against her skin. Warmer, realer, none of that synthetically lubed latex shit serving as a barrier between their skin.

“Hm? Gonna let me stretch this pretty pussy out?” Harry prods, strawberry bottom lip tucked behind his teeth as he glides the head of his cock over her.

Isla’s head lolls to the side. “Yes, Sir.”

Her hips grind up, what little they can, hovering over the mattress in his grip.

Harry tuts, his teeth on display as his mouth curls up over them, lopsided in the same way his open-mouthed smirk had shaped prior. “That’s not the one I want. You know the one I want.”

He strokes over her, tip bumping up against her clit.

“Yes, Daddy,” Isla assuages, little protest to her subservience. There’s less urge to manage a retort when she’s eager to be stuffed full of him.

“There’s a good girl,” Harry praises softly, pupils honed and brows pinched behind rubber as he guides his tip to slot into her.

Her sigh, like wispy agreement all on its own, morphs into a quiet moan, elongated as he nudges in. Just the tip — just part of it, and even that little bit just feels so different. It’s still a cock, it’s still his cock, stretching her just the way it always does, the way he does every Friday night for the last six weeks, and then some — but there’s something different in the way their skin meets. When he pushes in a smidge further and her spongy walls clench over some more of him, like a hungry vice, and his jaw slackens, Isla knows he feels it, too.

Harry curbs his quip on the lack of rose petals, because even the joke feels a little too intimate. Like he’s making more of what doesn’t need to be made more. Still, it feels oddly ceremonial — like a shift in dynamics, and he nearly feels it palpable, the air surrounding them, all the way down through the nerve endings of his cock. His jaw stays slack all the way, as he stuffs her to the hilt, and when his balls are flush against her, he cranes his neck back and groans. Even from her angle, Isla feels like she’s witnessing him in his truest form. His latex hood shrouds his throat, and shines in the light, and his shoulders, broad and bare, are the root of his arms, flexed as he holds her hips propped up in an impressive feat of athleticism. Her eyes trail over ink, over muscle, over bare skin, until there’s nowhere to venture and all that’s left is only what she can feel. He looks absolutely godlike, true to his stage name, the butterfly over his abs fluttering its wings with every breath he takes and expels. Isla clenches over him testingly. His whole frame goes rigid, like the motion’s sent chills wracking down each individual knob of his spine. He groans again, swearing softly at the ceiling.

Christ. It feels good, and, yeah — sex always feels good. But this feels good. Beyond carnal need, beyond nude flesh on nude flesh. This feels right, and he’s probably got arousal running through his veins so potently he’s nearly drunk off of her and her wet cunt alone, but he’d spend eternity wrapped by her spongy walls, milked until he’s raw, and still bask in her warmth.

When he pulls out a tad, ducking his chin just in time to catch the view of her own mouth parted in a pretty, open ‘o,’ he can’t bridle his dirty grin and his confession, “Christ. Been wanting to fuck you bare for so long.”

It bears similarity to their first scene, where he’d confessed, balls deep, the way he’d been wanting to stuff her full of himself for as long as he’d been watching her prance around the lounge in her slinky, little underthings. But that feels different, too. So long ago, it feels like, and just …different. Harry doesn’t let himself ponder on what’s different and all the things he’s been wanting to do, because he’d probably confess something far more outlandishly intimate, something rancidly lovesick. Something like Isla — her name, the fact he knows her name — and the fact that he’s been wanting to have her bouncing on his bare cock since the moment he’d noticed the smileys on the toes of her sneakers and put the pieces together. Something like the fact that he’s been wanting to know more of Isla, beyond Peitho, since she’d texted him a goofy gif of one of those blow up tubes dancing in the wind as symbolism of her eagerness when he’d sent her a link to another property, weeks ago. Instead, he focuses on the feel of her stretching around him, slippery and clinging.

He focuses on the strangled moan the jab of his hips draws from her, his smirk opened for his tongue to flaunt, “I know, baby. I know you’ve wanted it, too. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

And it does, Isla thinks. It feels good, and it’s all she can think about, the statement a mantra echoing in the mush beneath her skull, every fiber of her being hungry for him and every cell of energy practically honed on cherishing the present moment. He severs the connection of their gazes, vague on his end and blatant on hers, to catch an eyeful of the way her cunt splits open over his cock, squeezing at him like puzzle pieces meant to be. He groans at the sight alone, but the way she’s pulsing over him is no deterrent. When he hooks her legs over his shoulders, folding them, with a knee tucked onto the mattress for balance, it hits another angle entirely. It’s a subtle shift, but it’s enough, evidently, for Isla’s upper body to practically twist up, muscles stiff like a guitar string pulled tight.

“Right there? Yeah?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes, Isla wants to tell him, wants to scream it from the rooftop — but all she can manage out is a Daddy, the word nearly mangled by her vocal chords.

In response, his groan is guttural, and Harry throws his head back with a sloppy thrust forward. She feels him pulsing inside her, is the thing, and she clenches back to draw more of that. Because seeing him nearly as wrecked as he gets her is the view of views.

“S’all for you,” Harry manages out, maneuvering his thrusts with a subtle back and forth rocking over Isla’s own hips, with a grip on either side, bouncing her against him with every motion forward of his own. It feels a like the admission’s treading into sappier territory, in a way, but he sounds muddled with lust, enough, as he expands, “Just for you to bounce on, like the pretty, little whore you are.”

Daddy, she manages out, again.

“Just needed Daddy to fuck you raw, right? Needed it just like this—“

She squeaks at a harsh jab into her, the kind where he stills right after for a split second, for emphasis. Harry replicates the motion. The corners of his typically mirthy, plush mouth stay straight, no visible amusement leaking through his features at the sound he’s drawn from her. Isla feels like her pulse is visible in her throat with the way it pounds and the way her neck strains back as he does it a third time.

“Just needed Daddy to fuck you hard and fill you up with his cum, yeah?”

Isla writhes, her toes curling, uncurling, curling again. And the dominant just hauls her, by the hips, off and back against him in a steady teeter, like she’s his personal toy, purely for his offhand gratification, meant to be wrapped over his cock until he gets her all messy. That thought only makes the manhandling that much filthier, that much hotter, like a familiar flame licking at her.

“Yeah— yeah, fuck— yeah,” Isla gets out, sounding animalistic even to her own ears, her typically soft-spoken cadence of femininity morphed ravenous and wild.

“Yeah? Tell Daddy. Tell Daddy how hungry that sweet, little cunt is.”

He punches a shrill, wet gasp from her with the snap of his hips, and then a girlish grunt that ebbs, and then she’s rattling off a slew of all sorts of filthy things — filthy things he’s never heard off her lips, filthy things that contend, up there, with his own crude remarks. Things about her cunt, things about his cock, things about his cum; words like tight, and wet, and sloppy, and messy. Daddy seems to be the common denominator sprinkled in between each of her poorly separated thoughts, surging out in a slur of desperation and desire. But the one that gets him is the one about his cum running down her thighs. Want you to fuck me hard and stuff me full, for it to run down my thighs, after, Daddy. Something like that — and his own breath chokes him on that one. He screws his eyes shut, settling her hips flush against his own for a second of composure. His grip draws white to the surface of her flesh, harshly. The moment is long enough for her to draw her hips in slow circles over him and whine. And that has his mouth falling open.

“You’re a filthy, fucking girl,” the dominant tells her, his voice hard, when his eyes pry open, the darkness of his pupils nearly blowing out the familiar soft jade, entirely. Gonna fuck you like the filthy girl you are goes unsaid, because from there, he manuevers into a hover over her, practically planting the fronts of her thighs to the bed as he folds her in half.

And he gives it to her hard, from there. He fucks into her at a merciless pace, withdrawing nearly all the way and slamming back in like she’s a cock-hungry slut, because she’s his cock-hungry slut, every Friday night. He pumps his hips forward and grinds out a string of pathetic whines from her, like it's all too much for her to fathom all at once, and in response?

“Take it,” Harry grits out, lifting the head he’d hung over her to pierce her face with his gaze, his pace stern and unwavering with each helpless whimper, “Y’can fucking take it. This is what you wanted, so don’t start begging me to— shit— slow up, now.”

“Kiss—“ he hears from below, a phantom of a word he’s convinced he’d misheard altogether, judging by the way her pretty mouth is pried open in a silent cry.

But then she says it again — a plea — one that his eardrums can’t deny. It’s garbled, but it’s coherent enough for his sight to snap up. “Kiss me—“

He gives, corners of his mouth finally buckling as he slows his pace and nudges forward, nearly slotting his mouth against her own, only to withdraw teasingly. Again. Again. His huff is mirthy, amusement subsequent to her whine, to the way she mouths helplessly at him, trying to lift her head from the sheetless mattress. He cups a palm over her throat, partly to still her, and mostly because it makes her cunt flutter around him.

“Kiss,” Isla pleads, her voice small and sounding on the verge of wetness leaking from the seams of her disguise, siphoning softness from the dominant despite the sternness of his gaze. A silent mouthing over words as he pumps out, and then back in; words like kiss, again, like kiss me, like daddy, and then an audible repetition of the latter.

Harry ducks forward and merges their mouths, bottoming out. It’s not a tentative prod. It’s sweet in that it's languid, in that their eyes slip shut, in the way that his strawberry mouth works over her own. His squeeze over her pulse, the twitch of his cock against his spongy walls, the way he sucks her bottom lip past his own pair and nips, and then trails along the parted seam of her mouth with his tongue — that’s the contrast. He nudges out with his hips a tad, and licks out against her own tongue when he rocks back in. And then again, with the mesh of their tongues. Her mouth muffles his moan and he drills into her, hips working back up into a steady pace. By then, it’s messy, much like the first kiss they’d shared — his tongue slipping out of bounds and trailing over the corner of her mouth, stuffing back in, and working against the roll of her own.

When he pulls off, she’s gasping for breath and her pulse is hammering against the press of his palm. He dips his head back against the crook over her shoulder, huffing to slow the race of his own heart.

“Shit, baby,” Harry pants, pumping his hips forward. She clenches over him on a drag out, and that’s when it happens.

“Fuck, Isl—“

The man garbles the latter of his statement with a groan, neck twisting for his head to face the wall beside them as he tucks further against her, the hammer of his heart only spurred. That’s bad — that’s really bad, and he can only screw his eyes shut and hope that the grind he makes forward disorients her enough not to pick up on what had just nearly spilt past his lips.

Judging by the series of soft moans spilling beside his ear, his nearly fatal slip-up has, by a godsend, skirted unheard, but the headrush and the tightening in his chest is enough to have him feeling lightheaded. Another Daddy doesn’t help.

“Peitho,” he amends in a groan, hips only amping in their pace when she squeezes over him again. “God, baby, think you can give me another?” he prods, breathily, slinking his palm between their bodies and settling over her clit.

The girl below him whines and juts with her chin, a jagged side-to-side shake as he draws circles into her sensitive flesh. Like the contrast of scorching, ruddy devil horns against a shining, golden halo, Harry juts his own chin in opposition — a nod — and circles slower, the grind of his fingertips slick with what's between them.

“You can,” the dominant seems to decide for her, despite the vehement motion of protest and the noise that tails it, “You can, and you will. Come on, baby. Give me another. Daddy wants to feel that little pussy squeeze around his cock.”

As if on instinct, to appease, Isla clenches around him and siphons a sound of amusement. A pleased breath through parted teeth, cushiony lips crooked up. Not pleased enough.

“Not like that.”

She writhes beneath him, chest rolling and heaving under the press of her own thighs as he works his fingers in quick circles between them, beckoning with each pump forward.

“Come on, sweetheart, know you’ve got another in you.”

“Give Daddy another.”

She feels the coiling in her belly as the spring contracts, little blips of pleasure fighting to the surface rapidly, despite the way every fiber of her body yearns for his touch to trail away. It comes onto her suddenly, like a looming wave built from priorly low, harmless tides rippling through the water. Isla clenches over him in give, and her muscles grow taut before the inevitable snap.

“Daddy— Daddy, please— I—“

“Bloody fuck— go on. All over my cock, wanna feel you,” Harry coaxes, his statement catching on a groan as the motion of his fingertips grows sloppy in frenzy over the slickness between them, the pace of his hips as steady as he can manage, to work her through it. And he does — he feels it, the moment the coil snaps free. When she flutters over him helplessly, she tears a throaty groan from the dominant, in the process.

And then he’s just chasing his own release, pummeling into her with his pupils bounding from the bounce of her tits, to the way her lips are parted softly for breaths. With every nudge forward, the tips of her dark hair sways, strands splayed, dancing and unfurling like the animated heads of Medusa’s snakes. It’s certainly enough to turn him to stone when he feels his own resolve crumble, balls drawing up at the edge inches nearer.

“Gonna get you full,” Harry babbles, a crease between his brows as his tummy seized up, the pleasure lapping at every square inch where they press together, “Christ— always milk my cock so well— gonna give it all to you, baby—“

He’s not sure when his lust-fueled prating morphs into something incoherent, dying off into wordless grunts and groans, but it does, eventually. That’s the point he’s at when he’s pulsing in her, fingers wound against the roots at her scalp so her face is steady on him. Whether her lashes flutter behind the lace and her own pupils, disoriented, loll back in her scalp, Harry doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. Because, eventually, his own eyes screw shut, lashes twitching lightly on their lines as his cushiony lips fall apart for a long groan. He empties into her, pulsing warm ribbon after ribbon against her spongy walls.

She cranes her neck back, clenching over him as if to draw every drop, and catches glimpses of his upper body, hovering over her and taut, before he snaps and hangs his head. Her soft moan catches on his lips as he nudges their mouths together. They’re all lips moving and limbs caressing as he bottoms out, pulsing a couple times more before he settles onto her like a weighted blanket, the brush of their mouths the only interruption of the stillness. Harry disconnects first, looking over the features of her face unshrouded by her mask, with a certain fondness — the soft kind that always seems to settle in his eyes by the end of their night. He brushes sex-mussed hair from her skin with gentle fingers. The sensitivity of his climax really settles in his bones when she squeezes over him, again, and his whole body shudders over her. The corners of his mouth curl up lazily, and he plants his palms onto the mattress, siphoning what little strength he has in his exhausted thews to withdraw. A hiss slips through cracks of gritted teeth as his hips tug away, and then Isla’s empty. She’s empty, and she’s full. Full of him, slick, and wet, and messy.

The bed creaks under the uneven distribution of his weight as he knees his way up off of her and shuffles away. As if on their own accord, her own legs stretch out and settle against the mattress, folding over the bed, as every sinew of every muscle screams exhaustion. The dominant nudges her thighs apart further, prying with his fingers and with jade, and smooths a hand down her tummy as he gets comfortable — a sweet touch. Isla draws her arm up — a feat, considering the fatigue of her muscles — to drag finger pads against the inky butterfly over his abdomen. She brushes the corner of a forewing with her index, featherlight, before he catches her knuckles in his own grasp and brings his mouth to the digits, lips grazing softly. He dots kisses to every fingertip, to every knuckle, down her thumb, before he blinks up at her, lips curved softly. Isla sighs.

She’s still clenching over what he’s given her, as if she doesn’t want to part with even a drop, but her own body betrays her when his fingers skim over her hip, drawing aimless shapes all the way across the expanse of skin to just below her belly button. His vision flickers to her core. The fingers venture lower. He thumbs at the milky cream, leaking, and switches to his middle and forefinger as he draws it up to the hood of her clit. Isla’s mouth parts on a silent sound. A cry, a sigh, a moan — Isla’s not sure what would even pluck at her vocal chords. It settles into the latter when Harry takes the same middle and forefinger to stuff the remnants back in.

She’s warm mush and he’s soft touches and words of praise. All sorts of words, and none touch on the fact that it's their final scene.

Neither of them discuss the verdict of their contract.