Page 62 of The Toy Collector

“Come for me,” I command. “Come right now, with all of them just steps away. Let me feel you fall apart.”

As if her body is bound to my words, she shatters. Her entire body trembles against mine, and I hold her firmly against my chest, supporting her weight as the orgasm tears through her. It’s a violent, beautiful thing—watching her come undone by my hand, by my command, by my fucking cigar.

She collapses against me, chest heaving, eyes unfocused. I just hold her there, letting her float in the aftermath while I memorize the way she feels.

This wasn’t just about getting her off. It was about claiming space inside her memory—staking something permanent. She’ll think of this every time she’s in any building I own, when someone lights a cigar. And when she hears my name.

When the tremors subside, I slowly withdraw the cigar, now slick and glistening with her juices. I don’t take my eyes off hers as I bring it to my lips, inhaling deeply. Her eyes widen at the gesture, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, tucking the cigar into my inner jacket pocket. I keep it uncovered—I want to feel her wetness seeping through the expensive lining, a delicious reminder of just how pliable and perfect my toy is.

I turn her to face me, cupping her face with one hand. She’s still catching her breath, lips parted and chest rising with each shallow inhale. I reach for the long black ribbons trailing from her choker, wrapping them once, twice around my fist until the slack disappears.

The fabric is warm from her skin, and when I give a gentle tug, her chin lifts automatically, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

“Get on your knees.”

Her eyes hold mine for one second—the defiant fire in her burning bright. Then she smiles while gracefully sinking down, her dress pools around her like spilled blood. What a fucking sight.

From this angle, she seems both vulnerable and powerful. The choker sits like a collar around her neck, the ribbons still wrapped around my hand connecting us physically, a manifestation of the invisible chains I’ve been forging since the first day I saw her.

Her lipstick is smeared slightly—evidence of her pleasure, of my palm pressed against her mouth as she came undone minutes ago. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips when I notice her gaze traveling up my body, taking her time, savoring the sight she’s been denied until now.

She’s felt me, tasted me, had my fingers and tongue in her wet cunt—all without seeing. The blindfold has been my tool, my way of controlling what she knows, what she experiences. Removing that barrier is significant, a privilege I’m granting her.

“See something you like?” I smirk.

Blinking, she catches herself, baring her teeth. “How would I know? You’re the one hiding behind a mask,” she sasses.

“Undo my pants,” I instruct, watching her hands move to comply.

Her fingers tremble slightly as they find my belt buckle. Is it nervousness? Anticipation? I study the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip in concentration. No—it’s not fear. It’s hunger.

She works the leather through the buckle methodically, then moves to the button and zipper of my tailored pants. Each movement is deliberate, almost reverential. When she finally frees my cock from its confines, I’m already hard, straining toward her warmth.

I allow her a moment to look, to process. Her eyes widen slightly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips unconsciously. My length twitches under her scrutiny, and I see a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth—pleased at the reaction she elicits, at the power she wields even on her knees.

She wraps one hand around the base. Her stroke is slow, measured, and her eyes fixed on the movement as if memorizing every vein, every ridge.

The other hand cups my balls gently. “Mhmm,” I groan, tightening my grip on the ribbons. “Open your mouth.”

She complies without hesitation, her lips parting. The sight of her like this—willing, waiting, wanting—sends a surge of possessiveness through me so intense it’s almost painful.

Piper’s lips seal around the head. Warm. Wet. Fucking perfect. She starts slowly, testing depth, tongue flicking just beneath the ridge. Her eyes fluttering closed as she concentrates on the sensation, on pleasing me.

I give her a moment to adjust, to set her own pace. Then I tighten the choker just enough to make her gasp, the silk ribbons constricting slightly around her throat. Her eyes fly open, meeting mine with surprise and unmistakable arousal.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

She pulls back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing against the head of my dick as she forms the words. “Yes,” she breathes, her voice rough with desire. “But it feels so fucking good.” I loosen the pressure slightly, allowing her to take me deeper into her mouth.

With each forward motion, I tighten the ribbons, restricting her breathing just enough to intensify the sensation. When she pulls back, I loosen my hold, allowing her a full breath before the next thrust. It sharpens every sensation—every drag, every stretch, every vibration of her throat.

“Perfect,” I groan, watching her cheeks hollow as she sucks. “You were made for this. Made to serve me.”

Her eyes open at my words, heavy-lidded with lust but lucid, present. She hums around me; the vibration sends a jolt of pleasure up my spine. My free hand moves to her hair, not pulling, just resting there to feel the movement of her head as she works me deeper.

“That’s it,” I encourage, as the head hits the back of her throat. “Take all of me like a good toy.”

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