Chapter 2: The Taste of Control
The wet pop echoed in the confined space under the desk. Saliva stretched in a glistening strand between David’s lower lip and the tip of the silicone cock before it snapped. He gasped, his jaw aching, the taste of artificial material thick on his tongue.
“Lick.”
Evelyn’s command was a low murmur, barely audible over the drone of Mark’s voice through the laptop speakers. She didn’t look down. Her eyes remained fixed on the blueprints on her screen, her fingers scrolling. But her thighs, encased in fine wool, parted a fraction wider on the chair. The leather of her pumps, which had been bracketing his aching cock, now crossed at the ankles, tightening their vise-like grip. The sheer black lace of the thong was transparent with pre-come, stuck to his skin like a second, shameful epidermis.
David obeyed. He pushed his face forward, his nose pressing into the rough weave of her slacks. He dragged his tongue along the inner seam, from just above her knee, upward. The fabric was warm from her skin. He tasted dust, a hint of perfume, the salt of her sweat. He did it again, slower, worshipping the path his tongue made.
Above, Evelyn’s voice was steady, professional. “The load-bearing column is non-negotiable, Mark. If we move it, the entire east wing facade fails.” Her feet began to move again. The hard, pointed tip of her right shoe found the swollen head of his cock and pressed. Not a grind. A slow, inexorable rotation, like she was putting out a cigarette on his most sensitive flesh. The lace provided no protection. The pain was white-hot, crystalline. It bloomed into a twisted, radiant pleasure that shot straight to his core.
He moaned, the sound stifled against her leg.
“What was that?” Mark’s voice came through, confused.
“Apologies, a truck just went by,” Evelyn said smoothly, not a hitch in her rhythm. “Terrible insulation in this old building.” As she spoke, she increased the pressure of her rotating shoe. David’s hips twitched, a helpless spasm. Pre-come seeped anew, soaking the lace further. Her other shoe came up and tapped his balls, a casual, threatening little pat.
He licked harder, desperate for a distraction, nuzzling like a starved animal at the crease of her groin through the wool. He could smell her now, the musky, primal scent of her arousal cutting through the office sterility. It fueled him. He laved at the fabric with broad, wet strokes, hoping to seep through, to touch skin.
“...so we’ll need the revised calculations by EOD tomorrow,” Mark was saying.
“Understood. I’ll have David run the numbers.” Evelyn’s voice held a secret, vicious smile. Her hand dropped below the desk, out of the camera’s view. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not in affection, but in ownership. She guided his head, forcing his mouth harder against her. “He’s very... thorough when properly motivated.”
Her thumb stroked his scalp, a jarring contrast to the cruel, precise torment her feet were administering. He was split in two: the part that was her husband, humiliated and straining under a desk; and the part that was a raw nerve of need, every cell singing for her.
Abruptly, her feet stilled. The pressure vanished. The sudden absence was its own torture.
“Gotta run, Mark. Client email just popped up.” Her voice was bright, false. “Talk tomorrow.”
She closed the laptop with a soft click.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by David’s ragged breathing and the hum of the computer fan. Evelyn leaned back in her chair. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable. With her free hand, she unbuttoned the top button of her cream silk blouse.
“You’re making a mess of my trousers,” she observed, her voice cool.
She stood up suddenly. His world tilted. She stepped out from behind the desk, leaving him curled in the dark space. “Get out. Come here.”
He scrambled, his limbs stiff and complaining. The torn lace pulled at his skin as he crawled out from under the desk and rose to his knees before her. He was a wreck: sweat-sheened, marked by the belt, drool on his chin, his cock a swollen, ludicrous thing trapped in the transparent black lace.
Evelyn looked him over, her head tilted. “Stand.”
He got to his feet, unsteady.
She closed the distance between them. Her hand slid between his legs, cupping his balls, her fingers just brushing the base of his cock through the soaked lace. Her touch was shockingly gentle. “Does that hurt?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Good.” Her fingers tightened, not enough to cause serious pain, but enough to make his breath catch. “You belong to me. Every ache. Every twitch. It’s mine.” She released him and turned, walking toward the wall of framed vintage maps. “Come.”
He followed, the carpet soft under his bare feet. She stopped before a large map of the Mediterranean, sea monsters curling in the painted oceans. She traced a route with her fingertip. “Cartographers,” she said, her back to him. “They claimed lands they’d never seen. Drew boundaries based on whispers and lies.” She turned. Her eyes were dark, hungry. “I’m claiming you. Based on every gasp, every flinch I draw from you tonight.”
With swift, decisive movements, she unfastened her slacks and pushed them down her hips, along with her black lace underwear. She stepped out of them, kicking the bundle aside. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the glass of the map frame. The ancient coasts and mountains pressed cold against her palms and forearms.
“Fuck me,” she said, the command flat and absolute. “Right now. From behind. And don’t you dare tear that thong.”
The challenge was insanity. He was painfully hard, the lace a torturous constraint. To thrust, to move with force…
He moved behind her, his hands going to her hips. Her skin was hot under his palms. He positioned himself, the head of his cock finding her opening through the wet lace. He could feel her heat, her slickness soaking into the already-damp fabric.
He could feel her heat, her slickness soaking into the already-damp fabric. He pressed forward, the lace a maddening barrier, and felt her body yield just a fraction. A groan built in his throat. This was impossible, agonizing, perfect.
“Stop.”
The word was a needle. He froze, his hips shuddering with arrested motion. She straightened up and turned, her face an unreadable mask. She walked back to her desk, the map’s glass bearing the ghostly imprint of her hands.
She opened a deep lower drawer. From within, she withdrew a length of polished steel. It was a bar, about two feet long, with a series of notched grooves along its length and supple leather cuffs dangling from each end. She held it up, the metal catching the lamplight.
“Hands,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth.
He offered his wrists, pulse thrumming against the inside of his skin. She fastened one leather cuff, then the other, the buckles cold and precise. The steel bar lay across his back, forcing his shoulders into a slight, restrained pull. Then she lifted another, shorter strap from the drawer, this one with a collar.
She buckled it around his throat. It was snug, not choking. A short chain depended from it, ending in a hook. She attached the hook to a central notch on the steel bar behind his neck. The geometry was absolute. His arms were pinned back and slightly spread, his neck pulled into a firm, upright posture. He was tethered, a puppet on a steel frame.
She stepped back, surveying her work. “There,” she said, a sculptor assessing a piece. “Now you can’t touch me. Not unless I allow it.” She trailed a fingernail down his chest, over the welts from her belt, and gave his imprisoned cock a dismissive flick through the ruined lace. “You look perfect. A captured king in a fucking garter.”
She turned again, assuming her position before the map. She pressed her palms flat against the glass, her spine a graceful curve. “Now,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming. “Finish what you started. But remember the rules.”
He stepped forward, the apparatus forcing a strange, formal posture. He could not grab her hips. He could not pull her onto him. He had only the crude, forward drive of his body. He nudged against her, the soaked lace catching for a moment before sliding into the slick heat of her.
The feeling was brutal, textured, unreal. He pushed, his motion awkward, driven purely by his thighs. The steel bar bit into his shoulder blades. Each thrust was a study in frustration and blinding pleasure, the lace rubbing, her cunt gripping him through the fabric. She was so wet it made a filthy, squelching sound.
“Use me,” she hissed, pushing back against him. “Fuck me like the desperate, bound thing you are.”
He drove into her, grunting with the effort. The collar kept his head up, forcing him to watch their reflection in the dark glass—her arched back, his strained face, the cold glint of steel across his body. He was a machine, a tool she had built for this single purpose. The pressure built, a coiling spring in his gut, amplified by the constraint, by her tight heat, by the sheer fucking indignity of it.
“You’re going to come in that pretty little lace, aren’t you?” she taunted, her voice shaking with her own pleasure. “You’re going to fill it up like a sack.”
The words unlocked something feral in him. A harsh, guttural sound ripped from his throat, muffled by the collar. His thrusts lost all awkwardness, becoming a brutal, piston-driven rhythm. The steel bar across his back was a biting counterpoint to the wet heat of her. The lace, stretched to transparency, rasped against her inner walls with every drive.
He was a animal, his world narrowed to the slap of skin, her choked cries, the cold glass under her splayed fingers. His orgasm gathered, a terrifying wave threatening to shatter the careful framework of his restraint. “I’m—Evelyn, I’m gonna—”
“No.” The word was a whip-crack. Her hand shot back between her legs, her fingers finding his balls. She squeezed, hard. The pain was instantaneous, blinding, a white-hot supernova that consumed the rising pleasure. He screamed, a ragged, broken thing, his hips stuttering to a stop. The orgasm receded, leaving a violent, throbbing ache behind.
She pushed him back, his softening cock slipping out with a wet sound. She turned, her face flushed, her lips parted. She looked at his ruined expression, the agony and need etched there, and smiled. It wasn’t kind. “You don’t get to decide,” she said softly, wiping her fingers on his chest. “You’re a thing I use. Things don’t decide.”
With quick, efficient motions, she unbuckled the collar, then the cuffs from the steel bar. The relief in his shoulders was immediate, replaced by a deep, trembling fatigue. She let the apparatus clatter to the floor. Her eyes held his, a silent command.
He followed her on unsteady legs, the shredded lace a damp, shameful flag against his skin. She led him to the center of the room, to a heavy, polished beam in the ceiling from which a single, ominous black hook descended.
From a polished chest, she withdrew another bar. This one was longer, heavier, with thick leather cuffs at each end. “Legs apart,” she instructed, her voice all business. He complied, spreading his feet wide on the cool hardwood.
She knelt, buckling one cuff tightly above his right ankle, then the other on his left. The spreader bar forced his legs into a wide, immutable V. He was exposed, utterly vulnerable, his cock and balls hanging heavy between his thighs. Standing normally was impossible; he had to brace his weight awkwardly.
“Arms up.”
He raised them, the movement making him wobble. She picked up the shorter steel bar with the wrist cuffs from the floor. She refastened it to his wrists, the familiar bite of leather returning. But instead of hooking it behind his neck, she took the chain from the collar and clipped it to a central ring on the bar.
Then she reached up, taking a second, shorter chain with a carabiner from the ceiling hook. She clipped it to the same ring. “Let go,” she said.
He released the tense hold on his muscles. The chain went taut. The ceiling hook took the weight of the steel bar, and consequently, his arms. They were pulled upward and slightly outward, suspending his upper body in a gentle, unyielding lift. The spreader bar held his legs wide. He was strung between ceiling and floor, a starfish of strained muscle and desperate want.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the reality of his position settling in. He could move only in minute, trembling shifts.
Evelyn walked a slow circle around him, a critic surveying a sculpture. Her fingertips traced the welts on his ass from her belt. She brushed over the aching tightness in his balls. She finally stopped in front of him. Her gaze was like a physical touch on his cock, which was already stiffening again under her scrutiny, trapped by the sodden lace.
“This stayed on,” she mused, tapping the soaked fabric with a fingernail. It was a sheer, sticky web against his flesh. “My clever little challenge. And you failed.” She hooked a finger under the waistband. “But I think you’ve suffered enough in it.”
With a sharp tug, she ripped the thong down his thighs. It caught at his knees, tangled with the spreader bar cuff. The cool air was a shock against his freed skin. His cock sprang up, hard and angry-red, glistening with a mix of her slickness and his own pre-come.
She stared at it, her head tilted. “Look at you,” she whispered, almost to herself. “All this… for me.” Her hand came up, not to touch him, but to hover a millimeter from his heated skin. He felt the ghost of her warmth. He whimpered, pushing his hips forward a futile inch, seeking contact.
She let him hover there, aching. Then she leaned in, her breath hot on the head of his cock. “You want to come so badly,” she murmured. “It’s all you can think about. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he gasped.
“Beg.”
“Please. Evelyn, please. Let me come.” The words tumbled out, stripped of pride.
“How?”
“Any way. However you want. Please.”
She finally touched him. A single, dry fingertip traced the swollen vein on the underside of his shaft. He jerked in his restraints, a full-body spasm. She followed it up to the slick head, swirled through the bead of moisture there. “Such a pretty, desperate cock,” she mused. Her hand closed around him, not stroking, just holding. Her grip was firm, possessive.
He held his breath. This was it. She would jerk him off, let him find release against her fist while he hung there, a captured prize.
She would jerk him off, let him find release against her fist while he hung there, a captured prize.
Her hand tightened. He let out a broken sigh, his head lolling forward.
Then she let go.
His cock slapped against his stomach, untouched. She stepped back, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she watched the confusion and fresh agony flood his face. “Begging is a good start,” she said, her voice cool. “But it’s not payment. It’s just interest.” She walked back to the polished chest, her movements deliberate. “You owe me a week. I’m just collecting my due.”
From the chest, she drew out two new objects. One was a hood of supple black leather, with holes only for the nostrils and a zippered mouth. The other was a solid red rubber ball, attached to a thick strap of black leather.
David’s breath hitched. The spreader bar kept him rooted, the ceiling hook held his arms aloft. He was a statue. He could only watch.
Evelyn approached, the items dangling from her fingers. “Open,” she commanded, tapping the red ball against his lips.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. His eyes met hers. In them, he saw no cruelty, only a vast, quiet certainty. This was the map. She was the cartographer. He opened his mouth.
The ball was larger than the silicone dildo. It stretched his jaws wide, a dense, unforgiving sphere. The taste was sterile and faintly bitter. She pushed it past his teeth until it filled his mouth completely, pressing down on his tongue. The strap followed, cool leather against his cheeks. She buckled it tightly at the back of his head, the mechanism clicking with finality.
Sound was reduced to his own ragged, nasal breathing. Sight was his world now.
She held up the hood. It was a sleek, blank face of black leather. She unfolded it, revealing the interior of soft suede. “This is for me,” she said quietly, almost conversationally. “So I don’t have to look at your pleading eyes while I use you.”
She pulled it over his head. The world vanished into a close, dark embrace. The suede pressed against his eyelids. He could only see faint, amorphous light through the nostril holes. His own breath, loud and hot, echoed in the small space.
He heard her move around him. He felt her hands on the back of his head, checking the gag’s buckle, smoothing the hood. Her touch was efficient, impersonal. He was an object being prepared.
“Perfect,” her voice came, muffled by the leather. It was right in front of him. He felt her breath through the hood’s material. “Now you’re just a body. A beautiful, straining thing.”
He heard the rustle of her clothing. A moment later, her hands were on his hips, guiding him. His bare back met the cold, polished wood of her desk. She’d laid him back on it. The spreader bar clanked against the wood, his legs still wide. The hook chain jangled as his arms were stretched above his head on the desk’s surface.
He was utterly displayed, utterly blinded, utterly silenced.
He felt her climb onto the desk, her knees bracketing his hips. The warmth of her body hovered over his. Her hands smoothed over his chest, his stomach. He was hyper-aware of every callous on her fingers, every shift of her weight.
“You have no idea what I’m going to do,” her voice murmured, close to where his ear was beneath the hood. “You can’t see me. You can’t ask. You can only feel.” Her hand closed around his cock again, a dry, rough stroke that made his hips jerk. “And you will feel everything.”
He felt her lower herself onto him. Not with the slow, controlled descent he might have imagined, but in one sudden, brutal, sheathing plunge. She took him inside her in a single, deep stroke, her cunt a tight, wet vice around his throbbing cock. He screamed into the ball gag, the sound a muted, guttural mmmph.
She didn’t move. She just sat, impaling herself fully, letting him feel the profound, shocking heat of her. He was buried to the hilt, his body vibrating with restrained need.
Then she began to move.
Then she began to move.
It wasn’t the frantic, desperate pace he craved. It was slow. A deliberate, torturous rock of her hips that dragged his cock along her inner walls with exquisite friction. He groaned into the gag, a hollow, desperate sound. The leather hood turned the world into a hot, dark vault of sensation.
“Feel that?” Her voice was a whisper against the hood where his ear would be. Her breath was warm through the material. “Feel how deep you are? You’re buried in me.” She lifted herself up, an inch, two, until just the head remained inside. He felt the cold air on his wet shaft. He tried to thrust upward, but the spreader bar and his suspended wrists made it impossible. He was pinned. A specimen.
She dropped back down, taking him in one smooth, devastating stroke. His back arched off the desk, a silent scream trapped behind the rubber ball. She sighed, a contented sound. “So good. Just a warm, hard thing for me to ride.” She settled into a rhythm, a lazy, grinding undulation that made every nerve in his body scream. She wasn’t chasing her own pleasure. She was savoring his helplessness.
Her hands found his chest, pinched his nipples hard. The sharp pain bloomed, mixing with the overwhelming pleasure radiating from his groin. “You’re dripping for me,” she murmured. He could hear the smile in her voice. “I can feel you pulsing. Trying so hard not to come.” She leaned forward, her weight pressing his trapped arms deeper into the wood. Her lips, through the leather, found where his mouth would be. It was a mockery of a kiss. “But you will. When I say.”
Her pace shifted. Gone was the lazy grind. Now she fucked him with a slow, deep, penetrating rhythm. Each downward stroke was a claim. Each withdrawal was a theft. The desk creaked softly under their combined weight. The chains on his wrists rattled. His own muffled sounds were the only other music.
She was utterly silent except for her controlled breathing. The only sign of her own arousal was the slick, wet heat around him and the occasional clench of her inner muscles, a sudden tightness that would make his toes curl against nothing. She was a machine of her own will, using him for a precise, unknown purpose.
“You remember your challenge?” she asked, her voice conversational though taut with exertion. She rose up, almost letting him slip out, then sank down with punishing slowness. “The little lace thing you couldn’t break?” She laughed, a low, husky sound. “This is your penalty. You don’t get to fuck me. I fuck you. I decide the depth. I decide the speed. I decide when you spill your load into my cunt.”
The vulgarity, in that calm, possessive tone, shattered him. A fresh wave of pre-come seeped from him, mixing with her own wetness. He was a raw exposed wire, sparking with every movement she made. The orgasm was a tsunami building far out at sea, a pressure in his balls and the base of his spine that threatened to crack his world in two.
She felt it. Her rhythm faltered for just a beat. “There it is,” she whispered, her voice thick with triumph. “I can feel it building. You’re trying so hard to hold on, aren’t you?” She began to move faster, not with frantic passion, but with a driven, relentless purpose. Her thighs slapped against his hips. The wet sounds of their joining filled the dark space inside his hood.
“You want to come so bad,” she grunted, her composure slipping for the first time. Her movements became sharper, deeper. “You’re throbbing. I can feel you begging for it with every fucking pulse.”
She was right. Every muscle in his body was coiled, screaming for release. The hood, the gag, the restraints—they all fused into a single crucible of sensation, focusing everything into the exquisite friction of her cunt around him. He was nothing but a vessel for this impending explosion.
Evelyn leaned forward, her hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. She put her mouth right against the hood’s ear hole. Her next words were a hot, ragged gasp. “Now. Come inside me. Now. Fill me up, you desperate fucking thing. Now!”
The command was the final trigger. The wave broke. His body seized, back bowing off the desk as much as the restraints allowed. A silent, shattered scream locked behind the gag. His cock erupted inside her in hot, pulsing jets. The release was total, a convulsive emptying that felt like his soul was being ripped out through his groin. It went on and on, each spasm wringing a broken sob from his chest.
She kept moving, milking him through it, riding him until the last shudder passed. Then she collapsed forward, her sweaty forehead resting on the leather over his chest. Her own body clenched around him once, twice, in a sharp, final rhythm. A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips. It was the only orgasm she allowed herself, a quick, sharp punctuation to his long, drawn-out ruin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing mingling in the dark. The smell of sex, sweat, and leather was overwhelming.
Slowly, she pushed herself up. He felt her weight leave him. His spent cock slipped from her with a soft, wet sound. He lay there, utterly destroyed, a puppet with its strings cut. He heard the click of buckles. The spreader bar fell away from his ankles with a thud. The hook chain rattled as she uncoupled it, and his arms slumped heavily to the desk.
Her hands were at the back of his head. The hood’s buckle snapped open. Cool air rushed against his sweat-soaked face as she pulled the leather away. The light of the room was blinding. He blinked, his eyes swimming.
She didn’t remove the gag. She stood beside the desk, looking down at him. Her blouse was untucked, her hair mussed. She looked spent, powerful, utterly in command. She traced a finger through the sweat on his chest.
“My slave,” she said again, her voice quiet and definitive. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, written into his flesh and bone.
She leaned down and unbuckled the gag. The rubber ball left his mouth with a soft pop. His jaw ached. He worked it, trying to form words, but only a dry croak came out.
She shushed him, placing a finger on his swollen lips. “No talking. Not yet.” She picked up the ruined lace thong from the floor where it had tangled with the spreader bar. She held it up, a sad, damp flag. Then, with a look of pure ownership, she tucked it into the pocket of her discarded slacks.