
Bondage Therapy 82: Iron & Drool Descent
Locked in my private cell, moonlight striping bare skin and black chains. Collar tight, red gag filling my mouth with drool’s slow confession, wrists pulled high to the ceiling beam, ankles spread and tethered to floor rings so the heavy link pressed slick between my folds. Egg hummed inside, low pulse turning frantic as I rocked against cold metal—each drag bumping my clit, building heat until I shattered once, then edged again and again. Tears mixed with drool on my chest; chains held me stretched and open. The remote trembled in my hand. Dawn was far away.
