Page 63 of The Toy Collector

She gags once, unprepared for the depth, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she adjusts, relaxing her throat, determined to please me. I feel a swell of pride—she’s learning, adapting to what I need. I ease back slightly, giving her a moment before pushing deeper again.

The ribbon control becomes more instinctive as we find our rhythm. Tighten as she takes me in, loosen as she pulls back. Her breathing syncs with the pattern. Each inhale when the pressure releases more desperate, more aroused.

The controlled oxygen—the dance between restriction and release—has her moaning, her own arousal building without a single touch.

“Look at me,” I command.

Her eyes meet mine immediately, watery from the effort but blazing with desire. The connection is electric, intimate in a way that transcends the physical act. I can see everything in her gaze—a challenge, pleasure, and a raw hunger that matches my own.

“Good girl,” I praise, the words falling from my lips like benediction. “Such a good fucking toy for me.”

She whimpers at the praise while her hand works what her mouth can’t take, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that makes my thighs tense with pleasure. She’s pulling responses from me that no one else ever has.

I tighten the ribbons again, holding the pressure a beat longer this time. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as the oxygen deprivation heightens her sensitivity. When I release, she gasps around me, drool beginning to leak from the corner of her mouth.

It should be messy, undignified, but on her it looks like art—evidence of her surrender, her commitment to my pleasure.

“You love this, don’t you?” I growl, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it. “Being used like this. Being mine.”

She pulls back just enough to speak, her voice raspy from exertion. “Yes,” she manages, lips swollen and slick with saliva. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” I assure her, guiding her mouth back to my cock. “Not until I’ve filled that pretty throat with my cum.”

Her moan at my words is desperate, needy. She doubles her efforts, taking me deeper, working faster. I feel her other hand slide between her own legs, seeking relief for the ache building there.

“No,” I snap, tightening the ribbon in warning. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say so. That pussy’s not yours to please. It’s mine.”

I thought I’d already taught her that lesson, but evidently, my toy likes to play with fire.

She whimpers but removes her hand immediately, placing it on my thigh instead, nails digging in slightly as if to anchor herself.

Even when she yields, she pushes. That resistance is what makes her perfect—my favorite fucking contradiction. It’s part of why I’m so obsessed, so addicted to her.

I begin to move my hips more deliberately now, fucking her mouth with measured thrusts. Loving the wet sounds of her struggle to accommodate me. And the sight of her lips stretched around my girth, the feel of her tongue working the underside of my shaft, is fucking beautiful.

“That’s it,” I grunt as her technique becomes more desperate, less controlled. “Show me how much you want it.”

Her eyes never leave mine as she hollows her cheeks, creating a suction that draws a guttural groan from deep in my chest. The sound seems to spur her on, and she moves one hand to my balls again, cupping, squeezing gently, then more firmly as she gauges my reaction.

I feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening at the base of my spine. The ribbon draws tighter between my fingers, my thrusts more insistent. She takes it all, adjusting to my increasing pace without complaint, eyes watering but still locked on mine with fierce determination.

“I’m going to come,” I warn her, my voice rougher than usual, control fraying at the edges. “And you’re going to swallow every fucking drop.”

She moans her acquiescence; the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. My hand tightens in her hair now, holding her steady as my rhythm falters. The sight of her—on her knees, taking me so deep, so willing—combined with the physical sensation of her mouth and hands pushesme over.

I come with a growl. “Fuck! Piper!”

I’m still holding her in place as the first rope hits the back of her throat. She swallows reflexively, eyes widening slightly at the force, but doesn’t pull away. I keep her there, watching her throat work as she takes everything I give her.

When I finally release my grip on both the ribbons and her hair, she sits back on her heels, breathing hard. Mascara tracks stain her cheeks, her lipstick is completely ruined, and my cock gleams with the evidence of her efforts.

The sight of her like this—wrecked and beautiful because of me—sends a possessive thrill through my veins.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, a gesture that should be crude but somehow retains its elegance when she does it. A soft laugh escapes her, slightly hoarse from the treatment her throat has just endured.

“I need to find a bathroom.” Her voice is raw in a way that will remind her of this moment every time she speaks for the next day.

Tucking myself away, I redo my pants while she rises to her feet. Her dress falls back into place, but nothing can hide what we’ve just done—it’s written in her flushed skin, her swollen lips, the slight disarray of her hair that even her careful fingers can’t fully fix.

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