Chapter 8: Morning Aches and Honest Answers
Morning came soft and slow, the way it does when your body is too wrecked to do anything but float in that space between sleep and waking. Kyle drifted first, consciousness bleeding in through the cracks—the weight on his chest, the warmth, the faint ache in every joint and muscle he owned.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling stared back at him. Cracked plaster. A water stain shaped like Florida. Sunlight slanted through the curtains, catching dust motes in lazy golden spirals, and somewhere outside a bird was losing its mind over something that probably didn't matter.
Madi was on top of him.
Not literally on top—more like melted into his side, one leg thrown over his thigh, her cheek pressed against his sternum. Her hair had escaped whatever mess it had been in last night and now spilled across his chest in tangled waves, dark against his skin. She breathed slow and even, warm puffs that tickled the hair on his chest.
He didn't move.
Didn't want to.
His body felt like someone had taken it apart and put it back together wrong. His wrists throbbed where the ropes had bitten in, faint red rings circling the skin. His jaw ached—the ring gag had left the corners of his mouth sore, and he could still taste the ghost of leather on his tongue. His ass was... yeah. That was a whole thing. A deep, radiating soreness that pulsed with every heartbeat, somewhere between pain and satisfaction.
And his back. And his thighs. The welts had faded from angry red to something more like pink stripes, but they still stung when he shifted, still reminded him.
He should have felt like shit.
Instead, he felt—
He didn't have words for it. Something quiet. Something settled. The way you feel after a hard workout, when your muscles are screaming but your brain is finally, finally silent.
He ran his palm down her spine.
Slow. Gentle. Just feeling. The dip between her shoulder blades, the small of her back, the curve of her hip under the sheet. She was so small. He could cover her entire waist with his hands, could probably lift her with one arm, and yet—
And yet she had destroyed him last night.
He smiled. Couldn't help it.
Madi stirred. Made a sound like a sleepy kitten, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and burrowed deeper into his chest. Her lips brushed his skin—soft, absent, a kiss she probably didn't even know she was giving.
"Morning," he whispered.
She grunted.
He laughed. Quiet, so he wouldn't wake her fully. "Eloquent."
"Fuck off." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "Sleeping."
"You're not sleeping. You just talked."
"Talking in my sleep. It's a thing."
"Sure it is."
She pinched his side. Weakly. Without opening her eyes.
He caught her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and held it against his chest. She didn't pull away. Just sighed and went boneless again, her breath evening out, her body melting into his.
They stayed like that for a while.
Minutes. Maybe longer. Long enough that the sun shifted and the dust motes changed direction and the bird outside finally shut up. Kyle watched the ceiling and felt her heartbeat against his ribs and thought about nothing at all.
It was nice.
Then Madi moved. Propped her chin on his sternum and looked up at him with those bright, sleepy eyes, her face still creased from the pillow.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
"How do you feel?"
He considered the question. Did a mental inventory of his body—the aches and pains and marks and everything else.
"Like I got hit by a truck," he said. "A really cute truck."
She grinned. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I aim to please."
"You did." She shifted, settling more comfortably on his chest. "Last night, I mean. You were... really good."
His face heated. He looked away, toward the window, toward the light.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious." She poked his ribs. "Look at me."
He looked.
"I've done this with a lot of guys," she said. "And most of them freak out after. Get weird. Start apologizing or making excuses or—I don't know. Acting like it didn't happen."
"Did I do that?"
"No." She smiled. Soft. Real. "You stayed. You let me hold you. You said thank you."
"You told me to."
"I didn't tell you to mean it."
He didn't have an answer for that. Just looked at her—her messy hair, her sleep-creased cheek, her eyes still puffy from crying last night. She was beautiful. Not in the polished way he usually noticed, but in this raw, unguarded way that made his chest ache.
She was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why do you let me do this?"
He blinked. "What?"
"This." She gestured vaguely at herself, at him, at the tangled sheets and the marks on his skin. "All of it. The ropes. The belt. The—" She paused. "You're a rugby player. You're twice my size. You could snap me in half without breaking a sweat. So why do you let me tie you up and whip you and fuck you until you cry?"
His throat tightened.
He looked away. Toward the window again. Toward the ceiling. Anywhere but her face.
"I don't know," he said. "I just... like it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She didn't push. Just waited. Chin on his chest, eyes on his face, patient as stone.
The silence stretched.
He tried to find the words. Tried to explain something he'd never explained to anyone—something he'd barely even admitted to himself, in the dark of his dorm room, alone with his laptop and his hand and the shame that came after.
"I don't know how to say it," he said finally.
"Try."
He closed his eyes.
"I've always been like this," he said. "Since I was—I don't know. Fourteen? Fifteen? I used to think there was something wrong with me. Like, all my friends were obsessed with being in charge. Tits and blowjobs and making girls scream their names. And I was just... not."
Madi didn't move. Didn't speak.
"I tried to be that guy," Kyle continued. "Faked it for a while. Pretended I liked being the one on top, the one calling the shots. But it always felt wrong. Like wearing someone else's skin."
"When did you stop faking?"
"Never, really." He opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling. "I just got better at hiding it."
Madi was quiet for a beat. Then: "The girlfriend you mentioned. The one who dominated you."
"Yeah."
"What was her name?"
"Jess." He smiled, faint and far away. "She was older. Grad student. We dated for like three months my freshman year. She was the first person who ever... saw me. Like, actually saw me."
"What happened?"
"I fucked it up." He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "Got scared. Pushed her away. Told myself it was because she was too intense, but really it was because she made me feel things I didn't want to feel."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Like I wasn't broken. Like there was nothing wrong with wanting what I wanted."
Madi's hand found his. Squeezed.
"I've spent years jerking off alone in my dorm room," Kyle said, the words tumbling out now, messy and raw. "Watching the same kind of porn over and over. Girls tying guys up. Making them beg. Pegging them. And every time I came, I'd feel this—this wave of shame. Like I was disgusting. Like no woman would ever want a guy like me."
"You don't think women want a guy like you?"
"I know they don't." He laughed, dry and humorless. "Every girl I've ever hooked up with expected me to be the one in charge. The big, strong rugby player. And when I tried to let them take control, they'd get weird. Think I was joking. Or that I was too soft. One girl actually told me she couldn't respect a man who wanted to be tied up."
"That girl was an idiot."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But she wasn't wrong. Not about how most women feel. They want the fantasy. The big guy who throws them around and takes what he wants. Not some submissive mess who just wants to kneel."
Madi pushed herself up. Straddled his hips, the sheet falling away, her bare skin glowing in the morning light. She looked down at him—eyes sharp, mouth set.
"Let me tell you something," she said. "And I want you to listen."
He nodded.
"I've hooked up with a lot of guys," she said. "Dominated a lot of men. And you know what I learned? Most of them were just looking for a novelty. A story to tell their friends. Something to try once and then never think about again."
She leaned down. Pressed her forehead to his.
"But you're not like that," she said. "You don't want a story. You want to kneel. You want to be owned. You want someone to take that big, strong body of yours and make it their playground."
His throat closed.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Then stop apologizing for it."
She kissed him.
Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with something else—something deeper, something that made his chest ache and his eyes burn.
When she pulled back, he was crying.
Not sobbing. Just tears. Silent and steady, leaking from the corners of his eyes before he could stop them.
"Shit," he said, wiping his face. "Sorry. I don't—I don't know why I'm—"
"Shut up."
He shut up.
She settled back against his chest. Curled up like she was planning to stay there forever. And Kyle, empty and exposed and held, let the tears come.
She let him.
Minutes passed. The sun climbed higher. Somewhere outside, a car honked. Life went on.
Eventually, his breathing evened. The tears stopped. He felt wrung out. Hollow. Clean.
"That felt weird," he said.
"Good weird?"
"I don't know yet."
She laughed. Soft and warm against his skin.
"Hey," he said.
"Yeah?"
He swallowed. Heart pounding. Mouth dry.
"Would you maybe want to—I don't know—go on a date? Sometime. With me. Like, a real one."
Madi went very still.
Then she propped herself up again. Looked at him. Grinned so wide it crinkled her eyes.
"A date," she repeated.
"Yeah."
"Like, dinner and a movie and holding hands and everything?"
"I mean, we don't have to—"
"Kyle."
"What?"
She laughed. Bright and bubbly, that infectious laugh that made everyone around her smile. "I'm literally naked in your bed right now. I whipped you with your own belt last night. You begged me to fuck you while you stared at yourself in the mirror."
His face burned. "Okay, I know, but—"
"So a date is hardly the strangest thing we've done together."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
She kissed him. Quick and sweet, like punctuation.
"Yes," she said. "I'll go on a date with you."
His heart did something complicated in his chest. Flutter and squeeze and explode, all at once.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You're not just saying that because I let you tie me up?"
"I'm saying it because you let me tie you up and you stayed after. Because you let me hold you. Because you just cried in front of me and didn't run away."
He stared at her.
"I like you," she said. "I've liked you for a long time. And not just because you're a giant rugby player with a secret submissive streak. Although that doesn't hurt."
He laughed. Wobbly and wet and real.
"Okay," he said. "Good. That's—good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She kissed him again. Deeper this time. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he felt her smile against his lips, and his hands found her hips like they belonged there.
When she pulled back, she was grinning.
"So," she said. "What are we going to do on this date?"
"I don't care. Anything. Whatever you want."
"Careful." She raised an eyebrow. "You say that to a dominant, and you might end up tied to my bed."
He swallowed. "Promise?"
She laughed. Buried her face in his neck. Bit his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make him gasp.
"Okay," she said. "You're officially my boyfriend now. That's how it works. You make me feel things, I kiss you, you ask me out, boom. Relationship."
"That's not how it works."
"It's how it works now."
He wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her close. Felt her heartbeat against his.
"Okay," he said. "I'm your boyfriend."
She snuggled against him. Happy. Content. Hers.
"Good," she said. "Because I wasn't going to let you go."
They stayed in bed for a while longer. Talking about nothing. Kissing. Mapping each other's bodies with hands and mouths, slow and exploratory, no destination in mind.
Kyle traced the curve of her hip. She drew patterns on his chest with her fingertip.
"I can't believe this is happening," he said.
"Believe it."
"I've wanted this for so long."
"I know."
He raised an eyebrow. "You know?"
She smiled. Innocent and wicked at the same time.
"I've seen the way you look at me," she said. "When you think I'm not paying attention. Like I'm water and you're dying of thirst."
He blushed. "That obvious?"
"Mm." She kissed his jaw. "But I was too scared to say anything. Didn't want to ruin the friendship."
"Me neither."
"So we've both been idiots."
"Basically."
She laughed. "Well. We're idiots together now."
He turned his head. Looked at her. At this tiny girl with the bright eyes and the cruel hands and the heart that was softer than she'd ever admit.
"I love that we're idiots together," he said.
Her expression flickered. Something vulnerable passed through her eyes—there and gone.
"Don't say that," she said.
"What?"
"That word." She looked away. "Not yet."
He understood.
"Okay," he said. "Not yet."
She looked back at him. Relieved. Grateful. Something else he couldn't name.
"Okay," she echoed.
She kissed him again. Longer this time. The kind of kiss that promised more, that hinted at things to come. And when she pulled back, her eyes were bright with mischief.
"So," she said. "Since you're my boyfriend now, there are some things you should know."
"Like what?"
"Like—" She traced a line down his chest. "I'm not easy to be with. I have expectations."
"What kind of expectations?"
She smirked. "Well. For one, I expect my boyfriend to kneel for me whenever I ask. No questions."
His cock twitched. "Okay."
"I expect him to keep himself clean for me. Ready whenever I want him."
"Okay."
"I expect him to wear whatever I tell him to wear. Even if it's embarrassing."
"What kind of embarrassing?"
"You'll find out." She grinned. "And I expect him to be at my door whenever I call. No matter what time. No matter what I want."
"Okay."
She tilted her head. "You're not even going to pretend to argue?"
"I don't want to argue."
"You're very agreeable for a rugby player."
"You bring it out in me."
She laughed. Kissed the tip of his nose.
"You're perfect," she said. "Have I told you that?"
"Once or twice."
"Well. You are." She paused. "But also—you need to know that I'm going to be strict. I'm going to test you. I'm going to push you to see what you can take."
"I know."
"And if you ever want to stop, you tell me. Immediately. That's non-negotiable."
"I know."
"And if I ever push too hard—"
"Madi." He cupped her face. Made her look at him. "I trust you."
She swallowed. Her eyes got shiny.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay."
She kissed him. Hard. And when she pulled back, she was smiling again.
"So," she said. "Breakfast. What do you have?"
He considered. "I think I have some eggs. Maybe some bread."
"That's acceptable." She poked his chest. "But you're cooking. I'm not doing anything until I've had coffee."
"Yes, ma'am."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ma'am?"
"Too weird?"
"Too weird." She climbed off him, off the bed, and stood there naked in his morning light. Small and soft and dangerous. "You can call me Mistress. Or Goddess. Or Your Highness. But ma'am makes me feel like a schoolteacher."
"Yes, Your Highness."
She grinned. "That's better."
She padded toward the bathroom—his bathroom, with the small mirror she'd stolen. Paused at the door.
"Hey," she said.
"Yeah?"
She looked at him. Over her shoulder. Soft and serious.
"Thanks for saying yes."
He blinked. "To what?"
"To all of it. To last night. To this morning. To staying." She gestured vaguely at him, at the bed, at the tangled sheets. "Most guys run. You didn't."
He sat up. Ignored the ache in his back and his ass and his wrists. Looked at her—really looked.
"I'm not most guys," he said.
She smiled. Small and real.
"No," she said. "You're not."
And then she disappeared into the bathroom, and Kyle lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like he'd just been handed something precious and fragile and terrifying.
He was hers.
And for the first time in his life, that felt like enough.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and Kyle let his head fall back against the pillow. His body hummed with the aftermath of everything—the welts, the rope burns, the deep ache in his ass, and now this strange new tenderness blooming in his chest. He listened to the water run, imagined her using his soap, his shampoo, marking herself with his scent the way she'd marked him with her belt.
Two minutes passed. Maybe three.
Then the door opened again.
He turned his head, expecting her wrapped in a towel. Expecting steam and soft skin and maybe that shy smile she got when she wasn't actively trying to destroy him.
That's not what he got.
Madi stood in the doorway wearing nothing but the harness. Black leather straps crisscrossed her hips, cinched tight around her tiny waist, and the purple silicone jutted out from her body like it had always belonged there. She'd cleaned it—it gleamed under the morning light, still slick with fresh lube.
In her right hand, she held a collar.
Black leather. Silver buckle. A matching leash coiled in her left fist, the chain dangling and catching the sun. And hooked over her thumb, swinging gently, was a small metal device—chrome and curved and unmistakable.
A chastity cage.
Kyle's mouth went dry.
His cock, which had been half-hard from the memory of her mouth, twitched and filled so fast it hurt. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and stared at her like she'd just walked out of a dream he didn't know he'd been having.
"Morning, boyfriend," she said.
Her voice was bright. Cheerful. Like she was announcing the weather.
"Hi," he managed.
She crossed the room. Barefoot on the hardwood, hips swaying, strap-on bobbing with each step. She stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down at him—small and soft and absolutely in control.
"You remember what I said earlier?" she asked. "About expectations?"
He nodded. Couldn't speak.
"Good." She held up the collar. "I wasn't kidding."
She climbed onto the bed. Straddled his lap, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs. The strap-on pressed against his stomach, cold and hard, and she reached around his neck with the collar.
The leather was soft. Worn. She must have had it for a while.
"How does that feel?" she asked, buckling it.
"Tight."
"Good tight or bad tight?"
He swallowed. "Good tight."
She tugged the buckle one notch tighter. He felt it press against his throat—not choking, but present. Constant. A reminder.
"Perfect," she said.
She clipped the leash to the collar's ring. Let the chain pool in her lap, cool against his skin.
"Now," she said. "The cage."
His heart hammered. He looked down at himself—at his cock, hard and flushed and already leaking, standing up like it was begging for attention.
"You don't have to," she said. "If it's too much, we stop. Right now. No questions."
He looked at her. At the cage in her hand. At the strap-on jutting from her hips.
"I want it," he said.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Soft. Real.
"Okay."
She reached down. Wrapped her small hand around his cock—gentle, almost reverent—and guided the base of the cage over him. The metal was cold. He hissed through his teeth.
"Shh," she murmured. "I know. It's cold. You'll get used to it."
She slid it down. The ring went around his balls first, snug and unyielding, and then the cage itself—curved metal that encased his shaft, leaving him trapped and compressed and completely, utterly helpless.
The lock clicked shut.
He exhaled. Didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.
"How does it feel?" Madi asked.
He tried to find words. Failed. Tried again.
"Small," he said. "Tight. Like I can't—"
"Can't what?"
"Can't get hard. Not properly. It's—" He shifted, testing the limits. The cage held firm. "It's frustrating."
She grinned. "Good."
She clipped the leash to the collar and gave it a gentle tug. His whole body followed—chin lifting, spine straightening, cock straining uselessly against the metal.
"On your knees," she said.
He didn't hesitate.
The floor was cold. His knees hit the hardwood with a dull thud, and he felt the familiar ache in his ass flare as he settled back on his heels. Madi stood in front of him, leash in hand, strap-on level with his face.
"Suck," she said.
He opened his mouth.
The silicone was warm from her body. He tasted lube and clean skin and something faintly plastic, and he didn't care. He took her deep—as deep as he could—until the tip hit the back of his throat and he gagged.
"Good boy," she murmured.
She held the leash tight. Not pulling, just present. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curled against his thighs, because he knew better than to touch without permission.
"Slower," she said. "I want to watch you."
He slowed down. Bobbed his head in long, deliberate strokes, tongue working the underside of the strap-on, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. He looked up at her through his lashes—saw her watching him, eyes dark, lips parted, free hand drifting down to rub slow circles against her clit.
"You're so pretty like this," she said. "On your knees. Mouth full. Cock locked up where it belongs."
He moaned around the silicone. The vibration made her gasp.
"Do that again."
He did. Again and again, until her thighs trembled and her breath came in short, sharp pulls. She didn't come—not yet—but she was close, and he could feel it, could taste the way her body tightened.
She pulled him off.
He gasped. Spit strung between his lips and the strap-on, glistening in the light. His jaw ached. His throat was raw. And his cock—trapped in its cage—was throbbing with a pressure that had nowhere to go.
"Bed," she said. "On your back. Legs up."
He scrambled to obey.
The sheets were still tangled from earlier. He fell onto them, rolled onto his back, and hooked his hands behind his knees—pulling himself open, exposing everything. The position made his ass ache. Made the welts on his thighs sing.
Madi climbed on top of him.
She didn't waste time. Just slicked the strap-on with another dollop of lube and pressed the tip against his hole. He felt it—blunt and thick and unyielding—and his whole body clenched.
"Relax," she said.
He tried. Couldn't.
"Kyle." Her voice sharpened. "Look at me."
He looked.
"You trust me?"
"Yes."
"Then breathe."
He breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth. And on the exhale, she pushed in.
He screamed.
The sound tore out of him—raw and high and desperate—and he didn't care. She was inside him, filling him, stretching him open in one long, relentless slide. His vision went white at the edges. His fingers dug into his own thighs hard enough to bruise.
"That's it," Madi murmured. "Take it. Take all of me."
She bottomed out. Stayed there for a moment, hips flush against his ass, and looked down at him with something that might have been affection.
"Good boy," she said. "Now."
She started to move.
The first thrust drove the breath from his lungs. The second made him see stars. By the third, he was moaning—loud, shameless, the kind of sound he'd never let himself make with anyone else. The cage bit into him with every thrust, the pressure building behind the metal with nowhere to go.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Madi—"
"Shut up."
He shut up.
She fucked him slow at first. Deep, rolling strokes that made his toes curl and his hands scramble for purchase on the sheets. Then faster. Harder. Until the bed was creaking and his moans were echoing off the walls and he couldn't remember his own name.
"You like this?" she asked.
"Yes—"
"You like being my little fucktoy?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"You like that I can use you however I want and you can't even come?"
He sobbed. Actually sobbed. The pressure in the cage was unbearable—a constant, throbbing ache that had nowhere to go.
"Please," he begged. "Please, Madi—"
"Please what?"
"I don't know—please—"
She laughed. Low and cruel.
"That's what I thought."
She pulled out. He whimpered at the loss—hole clenching around nothing—and she slapped his thigh. Hard.
"Up," she said. "Couch."
He scrambled off the bed. Legs shaking, ass aching, cock straining uselessly against the cage. He made it to the living room and collapsed onto the couch face-down, knees pulled up, presenting himself like an animal in heat.
Madi was right behind him.
She climbed onto his back. Straddled his hips, feet braced on the cushions, and pushed back inside without ceremony. He screamed into the pillow.
"That's it," she said. "Scream for me. No one's going to hear."
Oh, they would. The neighbors would hear. The whole building would hear. And right now, he didn't care.
She rode him hard. Fast. Fucked him like she was angry at him, like she was trying to break him, and he took it—took every thrust, every bite of the cage, every humiliating sound that clawed its way out of his throat.
"Tell me what you are," she demanded.
"I'm yours—"
"Louder."
"I'm yours!"
"Say it again."
"I'M YOURS! I'M YOURS! FUCK, MADI, I'M YOURS!"
She came.
He felt it—the way her body seized, the way her thighs clamped around his hips, the way her breath stuttered and broke. She rode it out on top of him, grinding against his back, hands fisted in the couch cushions.
Then she pulled out.
He lay there, panting. Sweat cooling on his skin. Cock throbbing. Ass empty.
"Kitchen," she said.
He turned his head. "What?"
She was already walking toward the kitchen, strap-on still bobbing, leash trailing behind her.
"I want breakfast," she said. "Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Now."
He pushed himself up. Every muscle screamed. His cock screamed louder.
"Yes, Your Highness," he said.
The kitchen was small. Cramped. He stood at the stove cracking eggs while she sat on the counter beside him, legs dangling, watching him work. She didn't take off the harness. Didn't take off the strap-on. Just sat there in his black boxers and her leather straps, sipping the coffee he'd made, looking like she owned the place.
Which, he supposed, she did.
"Eggs are burning," she observed.
He flipped them. Saved them. Barely.
"You're distracted."
"I wonder why."
She grinned. Pushed off the counter and came up behind him. Pressed her strap-on against his ass through his boxers—the only thing he wore, and even that felt like too much.
"Keep cooking," she said.
He kept cooking.
She ground against him while he plated the eggs, while he buttered the toast, while he poured her coffee. Slow, teasing circles that made him shake and nearly drop the plates twice.
"Okay," he said finally. "Breakfast is ready."
"Feed me."
He blinked. "What?"
She climbed onto the counter. Sat there, legs spread, strap-on jutting out.
"Feed me," she repeated. "You cooked it. You serve it. That's the deal."
So he stood there—six-foot-two, two hundred pounds of rugby muscle, cock locked in a cage—and fed her eggs off a fork while she licked her lips and watched him like he was the most entertaining thing she'd ever seen.
"Good," she said, after the last bite. "Now clean up."
He did the dishes. She watched.
"Come here," she said when he was done.
He came.
She unbuckled the harness. Pulled the strap-on free, slick and glistening, and held it up.
"Clean this."
He took it. Licked it. Tasted his own ass, his own shame, her body—all of it mixed together. And he didn't care.
She watched him do it. Eyes dark. Smile soft.
"Good boy," she said.
Then she stretched. Yawned. Took his hand.
"Living room," she said. "I'm not done with you."
She bent him over the back of the couch first. Fucked him from behind while she stared out the window, watching the street below—the cars, the people, the normal life going on outside while she destroyed him inside. He moaned into the cushions. Loud. Shameless. The cage ached and throbbed and refused to give him any relief.
Then she dragged him to the kitchen table. Bent him over the edge—cold wood against his stomach—and fucked him again. Slower this time. Deeper. She reached around and cupped the cage in her hand, squeezing gently, and he nearly came just from that—just from the pressure, the humiliation, the feeling of being so completely owned.
"You want to come?" she asked.
"Yes—"
"Too bad."
She fucked him until her legs shook. Until she came again, gasping his name, nails raking down his back.
Then she pulled out. Left him there. Walked to the bathroom to clean up.
He stayed bent over the table, panting, dripping, his whole body one raw nerve.
She came back with a towel. Wiped him down. Gentle now. Soft.
"Good," she said. "Now. Window."
He froze.
"What?"
She pointed. The window. The big one in the living room, facing the street. The one with no blinds, no curtains—just glass and daylight and the whole world outside.
"Window," she repeated. "Hands on the glass."
He walked over. Slow. Heart pounding. Palms flat against the cold glass, forehead resting on the pane, ass presented to the empty room behind him.
Madi came up behind him. Pressed her strap-on against his hole.
"Everyone can see," she murmured. "If they look up. If they're walking by. They'll see you—big rugby player, taken apart by a tiny little girl."
He moaned. Couldn't help it.
"They'll see your caged cock. Your marked ass. Your face all fucked out and desperate."
She pushed in.
He screamed.
Not into the pillow this time. Not muffled. Into the glass, into the street, into the world. Loud and high and shameless, and he didn't care who heard.
She fucked him against the window for a long time.
Slow at first, then hard. Then slow again. Teasing him, torturing him, driving him to the edge of something he couldn't reach. He moaned and begged and sobbed against the glass. His breath fogged it up. His hands left prints.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Fuck—Kyle—"
He felt her tighten. Felt her come. Felt her body clench and release and clench again, riding wave after wave of pleasure on his wrecked body.
Then she pulled out.
He slumped against the window. Legs shaking. Cock throbbing. Ass sore and empty and aching.
"That's four," she said, breathless. "I think that's a record."
He laughed. Weakly. Hysterically.
Madi turned him around. Looked at him—at his face, flushed and streaked with tears, at his cock straining purple in its cage. She cupped his jaw.
"You did so good," she said. "So, so good."
He leaned into her hand. Closed his eyes.
"I can't come," he whispered.
"I know."
"Please—"
"No." She kissed his forehead. "Not yet. You're going to wait. You're going to stay locked up for me. And when I decide you've earned it—when I decide you deserve to come—then I'll let you."
He whimpered. But he nodded.
"Good boy." She took his hand. Pulled him toward the bedroom. "Now. Shower. Then you're making me lunch."
He followed.
Because he was hers.
And that was enough.