He has you on your back on the bed, your wrists tied loosely to the headboard with soft silk. He kneels between your legs, but his focus isn’t there yet. His eyes are fixed on your chest. “These,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble of possession. “Such pretty little things.”
His hands come up, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin cotton of your binder. Even that light touch makes you tense, a shiver running through you. You try to keep your breathing steady, to maintain some scrap of the masculinity you cling to, but he’s already undoing the clasps.
The binder falls open, and the cool air hits your bare skin. He doesn’t rush. He just looks, his gaze heated and appreciative. “So sensitive,” he notes, seeing your nipples harden under his stare. He leans down and takes one into his mouth without warning.
The wet heat is a shock, a sharp sensation that arcs straight to your core. His tongue flicks and circles, relentless, while his fingers pinch and roll the other. A soft, traitorous sound escapes your lips. He switches, lavishing the same attention on the other side, sucking until the bud is a tight, aching peak.
His teeth graze it, and you arch off the bed with a gasp, the pleasure-pain a bright, confusing fire. He pulls back, both nipples now red and swollen from his mouth. He looks at you, his own arousal evident. “You love this, don’t you? My good girl, letting me play with her tits.”
You shake your head, a weak denial, but your body betrays you. Your hips lift, seeking friction, and a fresh pulse of wetness coats your thighs. He smiles, a dark, knowing thing. He uses both hands then, kneading the soft flesh, tugging and pinching your nipples until you’re writhing, tears of overwhelmed sensation gathering in your eyes. Every pull sends another jolt straight to your cunt, reminding you that this body, the one you’ve tried so hard to redefine, still responds to his touch with humiliating, undeniable greed.
