
Bound, Breathless, and Beneath Me
Slave is right where he belongs. Sealed in his bondage sack, masked and silenced, with only the scent of his Goddess to breathe. He can’t speak, he can’t see—but he squirms when he’s running out of air. And I just sit, shifting only when I feel like it. He’s not here to be comfortable. He’s here to worship. To lie beneath me, helpless, overwhelmed, and smothered by the arse that owns him.
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