Page 61 of Bad Girl Dilemma

His hand lifts. Strokes down my jaw. His touch is reverent. “Good. I want them to see. I want them to know that you belong to me.”

I shiver. He sees it. Smiles.

“Strip,” he says softly. “Slowly. Keep your eyes on mine.”

Ties. Fabric. Skin. I obey.

When I’m naked and trembling, he leads me to the bench and bends me over it—slow, careful, like I’m precious. Because to him, I am. His to wield. His to vanquish.

He binds my wrists to the rings with crimson silk. Fastens my ankles wide. Then his hands trail up my thighs, over the plug still in place from earlier, until I whimper.

“Color.”

“Green, Sir.”

“Such a good submissive,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming everything I promised to make you.”

His mouth finds my neck. My shoulder. The base of my spine. “You begged me to teach you. Look at you now.”

He unfastens the plug that’s become a part of my daily routine now with a twist that makes me gasp. “You’re going to feel every inch of me, Dahlia.”

He circles me again. Again. Trailing. Savoring.Kissing. Biting my nipples. Until slick drips down my thighs and hunger claws through my soul. “Please, Sir. Fuck me. Please.”

A clack of his belt releasing. The grind of a zipper as my breath catches in anticipation. Then he’s there. Poised. My Dom and desired doom.

I moan as he lines himself up—hot and hard and relentless.

Then he pushes in. Slow. Unforgiving.

“God,” I cry out.

“That’s right,” he growls. “Take it. Take your Master’s cock. Show them what you’re made of. Who you were made for.”

He fucks me with brutal reverence—one hand gripping my hip, the other sliding around to rub slow, wicked circles over my clit.

“You feel this?” he breathes. “This stretch, this fullness? That’s me filling every inch of your greedy little body. Opening you up to who you were meant to be.”

“Yes—Sir—I—Thank you.”

He hisses. Grows impossibly thicker. “Again. Thank your Master again, sweet Dahlia.”

Two hands on my hips, his grip cruel and steady and keeping me in the crosshairs of pleasure. “Th-thank you, Sir.”

“Tell me how you feel. Tell me why you’re dripping like a faucet. Tell me why this little cunt is strangling my cock like I owe it rent money?”

“Yes… no… Sir… God, please. More!”

“More of what, my little cum-slut?” His voice is a sea of gravel. “Tell me why you need more.”

My vision hazes. “Because it’s good. Fuck it’s the best. You’re the best, Sir!”

He thickens, fatter, drags his piercings over every sensitive cell. My body responds. Tightening. Slicking. Desperate for release. He knows, of course. Feels everything.

And he growls his warning. “You don’t get to come yet. Not until you prove it.”

“P-prove what?” I whimper.

“That you’re mine. That you surrender.”

---