Chapter 2: Stockings and Submission
The fishnet was a lattice of diamonds, each one a tiny window barred against him. The rough, synthetic thread pressed into his lips, a stark contrast to the heat and softness it veiled. Her command hung in the air, and he obeyed without thought, his tongue a desperate, living thing pressing against the barrier.
He licked a broad stripe, the mesh scraping his taste buds, collecting her dampness and transferring it in a thin, frustrating film. He could smell her—that intense, musky sweetness—but the netting diffused it, made it a ghost of itself. He growled, the sound vibrating against her, and focused his efforts, his tongue darting and probing into individual diamonds, seeking entry. He found the seam of the thong, the wet spot where the leopard-print mesh was already soaked, and worried at it, his tongue pushing the fishnet into the folds of her flesh.
Above him, Elena braced her hands on the headboard and sighed, a long, luxurious exhalation. “That’s it,” she murmured, shifting her hips in a slow, grinding circle. “Work through it. Make a mess of them.”
He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his neck straining. Saliva pooled in his mouth and soaked the netting, mixing with her arousal until the threads were slick and dark. He could feel her swelling, the hard nub of her clit becoming more distinct as he rubbed the rough pattern over it again and again. Her breathing hitched, grew shallow. The subtle, controlled dominatrix was fading, replaced by a woman chasing a sensation just out of reach.
“Fuck,” she hissed, her fingers tangling in his hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. This was his universe: the crush of her thighs against his ears, the taste of synthetic fiber and salt, the sound of her pleasure. His own need was a distant, roaring fire in his lower belly, ignored but impossible to extinguish. He serviced her with a single-minded focus that bordered on worship.
Her movements became less controlled, more frantic. She rode his face, the fishnet now a sodden, abrasive veil between his mouth and her cunt. “Yes… god, yes, just like that…” Her voice broke. Her thighs tightened around his head. She came with a sharp, shuddering cry, her body locking and then convulsing against his mouth. He felt the hot gush of her through the mesh, a final reward for his labor.
She collapsed forward, her forehead resting on the headboard above his bound hands, her breath sawing in and out. Slowly, she lifted herself off him. The fishnet peeled away from his face with a wet, sticky sound. He gasped, dragging in air that was still thick with the scent of her climax.
She looked down at him, her eyes glazed, her ponytail mussed. A slow, sated smile spread across her face. “Two,” she whispered.
She swung her leg back over and knelt beside him on the bed. Her fingers, slick from her own wetness, traced his lips. “You did so well. You made such a beautiful mess.” She showed him her fingers, glistening and tangled with tiny black threads from the stockings. Then she smeared them over his chest, painting him with her.
He was wrecked. His face was flushed, his lips raw. His cock stood impossibly hard, a thick, angry line against his stomach, the head purple and leaking steadily. He looked up at her with a plea so raw it was beyond words.
Elena’s smile turned predatory again. The aftermath of her orgasm seemed to energize her, sharpen her. She crawled down his body, her fishnet-clad knees moving with a whisper-scrape across the sheets. She stopped with her face level with his cock. She didn’t touch it. She just looked at it, her head tilted.
“You’re a fucking mess, Marcus,” she said, her tone almost clinical. “Look at you. Dripping for me. Begging with your whole body.”
She leaned in and blew a soft, cool stream of air over the wet head. He jerked, a whimper tearing from his throat. “Please,” he rasped, the word shredded. “Elena… I can’t… I need…”
“You need to come,” she finished for him. “I know. I can see it. I can smell it.” She finally reached out, but not with her hand. With a single, sharp-nailed fingertip. She traced the bulging vein on the underside from root to tip, a feather-light touch that was pure torture. “But you don’t get to decide.” She pressed the tip of her finger into the slit, gathering a thick bead of pre-cum. She brought it to her lips, sucked it clean, her eyes locked on his. “I decide.”
She moved then, with sudden purpose. She swung off the bed and walked to the sleek dresser. He watched, his heart hammering against his ribs, as she opened a drawer and pulled out a small black velvet bag. She loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm. It was a sleek, black silicone vibrator, shaped like a curved finger, with a single, intense button.
“You’ve been so good,” she said, walking back, the vibrator held loosely in her hand. “So obedient. I think you deserve a reward. A little help.”
Hope, cruel and bright, flared in his chest. Was she going to use it on him? Let him come?
She climbed back onto the bed, but she didn’t go to him. She lay on her back beside him, her head propped on a pillow, her body a parallel line of leopard print and black netting. She spread her legs, bending her knees. The ruined, wet fishnet glistened. The leopard print thong was pushed aside, a sodden scrap of fabric clinging to her hip.
“Watch,” she commanded.
She brought the vibrator to her cunt, which was swollen and glistening from his mouth and her orgasm. She pressed the bulbous tip against her clit.
She pressed the button.
A high, electric buzz filled the room, mingling with the hum of the HVAC. It was a brutally efficient sound. Elena’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, then opened, fixed on his face. She began to move the device in slow, tight circles.
“Fuck,” she breathed, her back arching slightly off the bed. “It’s so… intense. After your tongue. It’s too much. It’s perfect.”
Marcus watched, utterly hypnotized. This was a different kind of torture. Seeing her pleasure herself, so openly, so selfishly, while he was bound and utterly unused. Her free hand clutched at her own breast, fingers pinching her nipple through the sheer bra. Her hips began to move in small, frantic thrusts, meeting the buzz of the toy.
“You want to be this, don’t you?” she gasped, her voice losing its steady control. “You want to be my toy. My thing. You want to be the one making me feel this.”
“Yes,” he choked out. “God, yes, I do.”
“You are,” she moaned. “You got me this wet. You got me this ready. This is because of you.” Her movements became jerky, less controlled. The buzz seemed to get louder. Her thighs trembled. “I’m going to come again. I’m going to come on this fake cock because my real one is tied up and being so, so good for me.”
Her words unraveled him. He pulled against the silk ropes until his shoulders screamed, his eyes burning into her, taking in every twitch, every gasp. Her back arched violently. A ragged, guttural cry was torn from her throat, completely unrestrained. Her body seized, her cunt clenching around nothing, her heels digging into the mattress. The vibrator fell from her limp hand onto the sheets, still buzzing pointlessly.
Silence, except for that electric hum and both of their ragged breathing.
Slowly, she turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. “Three,” she said, her voice hoarse.
She reached out a trembling hand and turned off the vibrator. The sudden absence of its buzz was deafening. She pushed herself up on her elbows, then sat up. She looked at him, at his body trembling with sustained tension, at the obvious, painful need.
She crawled over to him. She didn’t touch his cock. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him, deep and slow and filthy, her tongue claiming his mouth, letting him taste herself on her lips. When she broke the kiss, her eyes were dark pits.
“Now,” she whispered. “Now you can have what you want.”
She positioned herself over him, one fishnet-clad knee on either side of his hips. She reached between her legs and took his cock in her hand, guiding it. The wet, hot head nudged against her opening. She was soaked, swollen, impossibly ready.
She looked down into his eyes, holding him there, at the threshold. “You are mine,” she stated, the words final.
Then she sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide.
The sensation was catastrophic. After hours of denial, of teasing, of near-contact, the reality of her tight, slick heat sheathing him completely was a shock to his system. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, his entire body bowing up off the bed as far as the ropes would allow. She was so fucking wet, so hot, so deep. She took him to the hilt and paused, letting them both feel the fullness, the utter connection.
“Oh, fuck,” he sobbed, tears springing to his eyes. “Elena…”
“Shhh,” she said, placing a hand on his heaving chest. “Just feel it.” She began to move. Not fast, not frantic. A slow, rolling grind of her hips, a deep, claiming rhythm. The fishnet stockings brushed against his thighs. The leopard print bra swayed with her movements. Her eyes never left his.
He was lost. The build-up shattered any chance of endurance. The friction, the warmth, the visual of her above him, using him—it was a feedback loop of overwhelming sensation. He could feel his orgasm gathering, a tsunami in his guts, unstoppable.
“I’m… I can’t… I’m gonna come,” he gasped, the warning torn from him.
Her grinding hips stilled. She clenched her internal muscles around him, a fierce, milking pressure that wrenched a groan from him. “Look at me,” she ordered, her voice iron.
He forced his swimming vision to focus on her face.
“Come,” she said.
It was not permission. It was a command.
His world exploded into white, silent fire. His body convulsed, utterly beyond his control, as he emptied himself into her in deep, pulsing jets. He cried out, a sound with no shape, as the pleasure racked him, wave after wave, draining him of every thought, every ounce of tension, leaving him a hollow, trembling shell.
Elena rode him through it, her movements gentling, easing him down. When the last shudder passed through him, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. She was still hard around him. She hadn’t come this time. This had been for him. Her reward.
She held herself there, joined to him, for a long minute, watching the haze of sublime release slowly clear from his eyes. Finally, she lifted herself off him with a soft, wet sound. He was still semi-hard, spent and sensitive.
She fetched a warm, damp cloth from a basin he hadn’t noticed and cleaned him with a tenderness that felt almost heartbreaking. She wiped his stomach, his thighs, his softening cock. Then she untied the silk ropes from the steel D-rings with efficient tugs. His arms fell to his sides, heavy and numb. She chafed his wrists gently, restoring the blood flow, the sting a sharp counterpoint to his blissful exhaustion.
She pulled the gag from his mouth, unbuckling it slowly. She didn’t remove the cuffs from his wrists. The weekend wasn’t over.
“Sleep,” she said, brushing his sweat-damp hair from his forehead. She pulled a light blanket over him. She turned off the piercing LED light, plunging the room into a profound darkness broken only by a tiny red power light on the wall. The hum of the HVAC remained.
He heard the soft rustle as she removed the stockings, the garter belt, the magnificent, destroyed leopard print set. He heard the whisper of her pulling on a simple robe.
She paused by the door. “One,” she said softly into the darkness.
The door clicked shut.
Alone in the humming dark, his body humming with a deep, satiated ache, Marcus understood. One orgasm. His. The score was reset. The game was far from over. A slow, helpless smile touched his raw lips as he sank into a black and dreamless sleep.
A slow, helpless smile touched his raw lips as he sank into a black and dreamless sleep.The hum of the room faded into nothing.
He woke to the scent of coffee and the absence of the blanket.A chill ghosted over his skin. “Rise and shine, pretty thing.” Elena’s voice was crisp, caffeinated.
Marcus blinked, his eyes gummy with sleep. The LED light was still off, but a softer, ambient glow now emanated from the baseboards. She stood at the foot of the platform, a silhouette against the grey light.She was dressed in vinyl. A full-body Catwoman suit, the material a matte black that drank the light, hugging every curve and muscle of her torso and legs. It was zipped down just past her sternum, a deep V of exposed skin. The shoulders were capped, the gloves slender and fingerless.She looked less like a fantasy and more like a tactical instrument.
“Sleep well?” she asked, sipping from a black mug. Her hair was down, a dark cascade over the shiny shoulders of the suit.He tried to speak, but his throat was a dry crackle. He nodded instead. The deep ache in his muscles, the pleasant soreness in his wrists, was a map of the previous day.He was still naked, the cool air raising goosebumps.
“Good.We’re starting fresh.” She placed the mug on the dresser. The vinyl creaked softly as she moved.She picked up two objects from the dresser top. They were black metal bars, about a foot and a half long, with D-rings at each end. A spreader bar.“Sit up,” she commanded.
He pushed himself up, the linen sheet pooling at his waist.His body felt heavy, used.She approached, the suit whispering. She didn’t touch him with her hands at first. She just looked, her eyes assessing him like a piece of art she was about to modify.“Arms out,” she said. He obeyed, holding his arms out to his sides, parallel to the floor. The silk cuffs were still loose on his wrists from the night before.She clipped one end of the first spreader bar to the left cuff. Then she took his right wrist and pulled it across his body, clipping that cuff to the other end of the same bar. The bar now crossed his torso, forcing his hands together in front of his sternum, bound at a fixed, immovable distance.His shoulders pulled taut.
“Comfortable?” Her breath smelled of coffee.Before he could answer, she lifted the second bar. She looped a wide, padded leather collar around his neck, buckling it snug at the back. It was not tight enough to choke, but its presence was immediate, authoritative. She clipped one end of the second bar to the ring on the collar.
Then she leaned down, her vinyl-clad thigh brushing his arm, and clipped the other end of the neck bar to the D-ring where the two wrist cuffs met in the middle of the first bar.The geometry was complete.He was now a locked system. The bar from his neck to his hands forced his head up, his posture straight. If he slumped, the collar pulled.If he tried to lower his hands, his neck strained. He was open, exposed, and utterly controlled.A breath hitched in his throat, a mix of fear and intense excitement.
Elena stepped back, admiring her work.The black metal bars gleamed against his skin. “There.Now I can see all of you.” Her gaze traveled lazily down his body. His cock, soft from sleep, began to thicken under her scrutiny. It was an involuntary response, a biological betrayal that made her smile widen.
“Even now,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.She reached out a gloved hand and wrapped her fingers around him. The vinyl was cool, smooth, unyielding.She gave him two slow, firm strokes. He gasped, his head pushing back against the collar’s restraint.She released him.“Later. First, we need to address your… presentation.” She walked to the side of the room and returned with a small bottle and a fresh razor.“You’re getting smooth. Everywhere.”
The process was clinical, humbling.She applied the cool gel with an impersonal efficiency. The razor, wielded with precise strokes, scraped away the hair from his groin, his balls, his inner thighs. He was held rigid by the spreader bars, unable to flinch away from the intimate blade. The scent of aloe and mint filled the air. His skin, when she finished, felt newborn and hypersensitive.She wiped the last of the gel away with a warm towel. The vinyl of her suit was warm now where it pressed against his leg. Her bare fingers, ungloved, traced the freshly bare skin of his inner thigh, making him shiver.
“Better,” she said, her voice a low purr. Her eyes were on his now fully erect cock, standing stiff against his stomach.The vulnerability was absolute. He was shaved, bound, collared, and completely hard before her.She climbed onto the platform, kneeling between his spread knees. The vinyl of her suit was slick against his skin.She placed her hands on his thighs, her touch possessive.
“You look delicious like this,” she said.“My own little living toy. All packaged up.” She leaned forward, her lips hovering just above the head of his cock.He could feel her breath, warm and damp. “Do you know what I want to do?”
He shook his head, the movement restricted by the bar.“I want to hear you beg me to suck it. And then I’m going to make you wait.” Her tongue darted out, a lightning-quick, wet stripe along his length from base to tip.He cried out, his hips trying to buck but finding no leverage.
“Please,” he rasped, the word tearing from him. “Elena, please suck my cock.”
She smiled, a flash of white in the dim light.“Good boy.” She lowered her head. She didn’t take him in her mouth. She pressed her open lips against the throbbing head, a hot, soft pressure, and swirled her tongue around the rim. Then she pulled back, leaving him wet and desperate.“Please,” he begged again, his voice breaking.She ignored him. Her gloved hands slid up his thighs, over his hips, to his stomach. She traced the lines of his muscles, now taut with strain. She leaned in again, this time taking one of his balls into her mouth through the vinyl of her glove.The sensation was bizarre, textured, intense. She sucked lightly, her tongue working, before releasing him with a pop.
She sucked lightly, her tongue working, before releasing him with a pop. She sat back on her heels, vinyl creaking, and surveyed her work: him, breathless and bound, his skin flushed and hairless, his cock a straight, leaking line of mute appeal. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said, her voice conversational.
He blinked, confusion cutting through the haze of need. “Wh-what?”
“About your presentation.” She swung off the bed and returned to the black lacquered dresser. She opened the same drawer that had held the leopard print set. She pulled out the thong. The sheer, spotted mesh dangled from her finger. Then she retrieved the second pair of fishnet stockings, the ones with the delicate floral pattern at the thigh, and the black garter belt. She laid them on the bed beside his hip.
He stared at the garments, his mind struggling to catch up. The leopard print. The nets. A cold, thrilling shame pooled in his gut, entirely separate from the heat in his groin.
“My turn to wear the fantasy?” he asked, his voice thin.
“No.” She unfastened the collar from the spreader bar with a precise click, giving his head some freedom. “My turn to rewrite it.” She unclipped the bar connecting his wrists, though the cuffs remained. “On your feet.”
It was awkward, rising with his hands still bound before him, the remaining bar from his wrists to his collar making him move like a marionette. He stood, unsteady. The cool air of the room kissed his newly bare skin everywhere. Elena knelt before him, the scrap of leopard print in her hands.
“Lift your right foot.” Her tone brooked no hesitation. He obeyed, balancing awkwardly. She threaded the fragile garment up his leg, her fingers brushing his calf, his thigh. The elastic waistband settled against his hip. It was a bizarre, intimate violation. The mesh was shockingly light against his skin, the pattern absurd on his masculine hip. She adjusted it, her touch clinical, tugging the back of the thong to seat it between his ass cheeks. The sensation was foreign and deeply exposing.
“Now the other.” She guided his left foot through. The thong was in place. He looked down at himself. The sight was surreal—his erection jutting proudly from the wild, feminine print.
“See?” Elena said softly, looking up at him from her knees. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me.” She picked up one of the fishnet stockings. “Foot.”
He lifted his foot again. She gathered the netting and rolled it up his leg with a practiced efficiency that felt like a ritual. The rough, diamond-patterned thread clung to his hairless skin. She fastened the first garter clasp to the top of the stocking, the snap loud in the quiet room. The black strap dangled against his thigh. She repeated the process with the other leg. Each snap of a clasp was a period ending a sentence of his former self.
When she stood, she was smiling, but it wasn’t cruel. It was captivated. She walked a slow circle around him. The fishnet sheened on his legs. The leopard print was a violent splash of chaos at his groin. The black metal bars and cuffs completed a picture of brutal, exquisite contradiction.
“God, you’re beautiful,” she breathed, almost to herself. She stopped in front of him. Her gloved hand reached out and cupped him through the mesh, squeezing gently. Pre-cum bloomed dark on the spotted fabric. “A perfect, filthy gift. Just for me.”
She pushed him backward. He stumbled, his balance compromised by the bindings and the unfamiliar feel of the stockings, until his knees hit the platform bed and he sat down heavily. She followed, crawling over him, the vinyl of her suit slick and cool against his net-covered legs. She straddled his lap, her weight settling on his thighs. The zipper of her suit pressed into his bare stomach.
She took his bound hands in her gloved ones and lifted them, placing them on her vinyl-clad breasts. “Feel me,” she commanded.
He squeezed, the material unyielding, the shape beneath it firm and familiar. She began to move in his lap, a slow, grinding rotation, her clothed cunt rubbing against the leopard print covering his cock. The double layer of fabric was maddening. He could feel the heat of her, but not the texture. He could sense the wetness, but couldn’t touch it.
“You want to be in me,” she stated, her breath coming quicker. Her hips found a rhythm.
“Yes,” he groaned, his fingers clutching at her.
“You want to tear this pretty little thong off and fuck me raw.”
“Christ, yes, Elena. Please.”
She leaned forward, her lips at his ear. The vinyl of her suit pressed against his collarbone. “Ask me nicely.”
He was beyond pride, beyond anything but need. “Please fuck me. Please let me inside you. I need to feel you. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, just please let me come in you.”
She stopped grinding. She reached between their bodies. Her fingers, deft even in the gloves, hooked into the waistband of the leopard print thong. She didn’t take it off. She just pulled it aside, exposing him completely to the cool air. The damp mesh dug into the side of his shaft.
Then her other hand worked at the seam of her own suit. There was a subtle zipper, a hidden closure. She parted the vinyl at her groin. The scent of her, deep and animal, hit him instantly. She was bare, wet, and swollen. She positioned him, the head of his cock nudging against her slick opening.
She didn’t sink down. She held him there, poised at her threshold, her eyes locked on his. “You are mine,” she whispered, a final, absolute reminder.
Then she impaled herself on him.
The cry was torn from both of them. For him, it was the shocking, seamless entry after so much friction and barrier. For her, it was the fullness, the perfect stretch. She took him deep in one sure, sinking motion, until their bodies were flush. The vinyl of her suit was a cold shell around the hot, clenching core of her.
She didn’t move for a long moment, letting them both feel the profound connection. He was buried inside her, his hands bound on her breasts, his body sheathed in her lingerie, his neck tethered by leather and steel. He had never felt more possessed.
“Fuck,” she exhaled, the word shuddering out of her.
Then she began to ride him.
It was not gentle. It was a fierce, driving piston of her hips, each stroke slamming her down onto his length, taking him to the hilt. The metal bars rattled slightly with the force of her movements. The fishnet stockings rasped against the vinyl of her thighs. Her gloves were tight on his wrists. She threw her head back, her dark hair whipping, her eyes closed in fierce concentration.
The sounds were obscene: the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, her gasps, his broken groans, the creak of the suit. He was hurtling toward the edge instantly, his previous orgasm a distant memory, his body hyper-sensitized and screaming for release.
“I’m close,” he warned, his voice a raw scrape.
Her eyes flew open. She dug her gloved fingers into his shoulders, her rhythm never faltering. “Look at me.” He forced his gaze to hers. Her face was a mask of feral pleasure. “Come inside me. Fill me up. Now.”
The command shattered his last thread of control. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and consuming, a white-hot flood that pulsed from his core into hers. He shouted, his body seizing, the spreader bars rattling violently as he emptied himself in deep, desperate spurts.
She rode him through every last tremor, milking him, her own movements becoming erratic, frantic. As his climax began to ebb, she let out a sharp, guttural cry. Her cunt clenched around him in a series of fierce, rhythmic spasms, a second, overlapping orgasm triggered by the feeling of his release inside her. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her body trembling, her breath hot against his neck.
They stayed locked together, breathing in ragged unison. The smell of sex and vinyl and sweat filled the space. Slowly, she pushed herself up. She looked down at where they were joined, at the mess they’d made. She dismounted slowly, a wince of over-sensitivity crossing her face.
He was utterly spent, hollowed out. The leopard print thong was a ruined, twisted thing at his hips. The stockings were damp with sweat.
Elena, her suit still open at the groin, reached for the damp cloth she’d used earlier. She cleaned him with a strange, tender thoroughness, wiping his stomach, his spent cock, even dabbing at the mesh of the thong. She did not remove the lingerie. She did not unfasten the bars.
She simply pulled the vinyl of her suit closed, sealing herself away. She retrieved her coffee mug, took a slow sip, and looked at him—bound, dressed in her clothes, covered in the evidence of her use.
“Two,” she said, her voice hoarse but satisfied.