Bend for Velvet

He asked so politely.

That was the first mistake.

I don't do sweet requests. I don't do "please." But there was something about the way he said it--like he'd been holding it in for months, maybe years. Like this wasn't a kink he stumbled into, but a hunger he couldn't outrun anymore.

And I wanted to see him break.

I let him wait. Two weeks of teasing. Two weeks of voice notes where I outlined every inch of the strap I'd use, every position I might consider, every cruel little motion I could make if I felt generous enough to ruin him.

He said he was ready. I knew better. But I let him try.

By the time I let him come over, he was trembling before I even touched him.

I wore black lace and leather. Not for him. For me. Thigh-high boots. Lips like sin. My favorite harness already strapped on beneath a slit dress I let hang just off my shoulders. He stared like he was seeing God.

"Undress."

He fumbled with his buttons. I didn't help. Didn't speak again. Just watched. Made him feel it. That silence--my silence--was a weapon. I let it coil in the space between us, thick and dangerous.

Once he was naked and kneeling, I stepped close and tilted his chin up with my boot. He kissed it without being told.

Good.

I didn't need foreplay. He was the foreplay. His desperation. The quiver in his thighs. The way his breath caught every time I shifted my weight and the harness buckled. Every second built the scene.

I made him lie on his stomach first. Let him feel the cool slick of lube. Let him shiver while I traced the plug against his entrance, tapping just hard enough to make him clench.

He whimpered.

"Don't act like you're scared," I whispered, low and thick. "You begged for this."

The plug slid in slow, and he moaned--sharp, high-pitched, needy. I pushed it deeper. Held it there. Let it throb inside him.

And then I walked away.

I left him like that for ten minutes. On the bed. Face down. Plug buried. Letting it soak in. Letting him wonder how much bigger I'd feel. That wait? It always tastes better when it hurts a little.

When I came back, I removed the plug without a word and replaced it with the tip of my cock.

Thicker. Warmer. Realer, somehow.

He gasped.

"Use your words."

He could barely get them out. "Please... please, Goddess..."

I pressed in slowly, watching every inch stretch him open. I kept my hands on his hips, firm, steady. Not to hold him down--he was already mine. I guided him. Shaped him. Like wet clay under velvet hands.

I fucked him slow. Torturously slow. I wanted him to feel every inch, to memorize the shape of it. Each slide forward was a promise. Each pull back, a threat.

"You're taking it so well," I crooned. "Little fuck toy. Who knew this hole was so eager to serve?"

His face was buried in the pillows, his fists clenched, his back arched like a fucking altar. And I kept going.

Deeper. Harder. Faster.

His moans turned to whimpers. Then gasps. Then nothing but noise. I adjusted my stance and angled up. That's when I found it--that spot. His whole body jolted like I'd flipped a switch inside him.

"Oh," I laughed, breathy and cruel. "So that's it. That's your weakness."

He didn't speak. Couldn't. He just moaned into the sheets as I hit it again. And again. Until his cock leaked, untouched. Until he arched his back like he wanted to beg for more but didn't dare.

"Look at you," I whispered. "So easy to break open. You're pathetic. And perfect."

I wrapped a fist in his hair. Not to steady myself. To own him. His body was shaking now. His breath shallow. His mind was far, far away--somewhere beneath me.

I didn't stop until I was satisfied. Not just with the view--though it was beautiful: his ass bouncing, his skin flushed, his cock twitching in the air like a forgotten toy. I stopped when I felt it.

That moment of surrender. The exact second he went from submissive to owned.

When I pulled out, he whimpered. Begged me to keep going. I didn't.

I stood over him, dragging the head of my cock across his lips, slick with him. "Lick it clean."

He obeyed. Tongue out. Eyes fluttering. Devoted.

And that's when I realized... pegging isn't about the act. It's about transformation. It's about the slow, gorgeous rot of masculinity. The unraveling of ego. Watching a man become something new under you. Something better.

I didn't just fuck him.

I hollowed him out.

And I'll do it again.