Don't Move Don't Come

All characters in this story are over the age of 18 and engaging in fully consensual activities. This is a fictional work exploring erotic power exchange dynamics between trusting adults. Any resemblance to real people or events is entirely coincidental.

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains consensual BDSM, impact play, orgasm denial, restraint, and explicit sexual content between a male Dom and female sub. If these themes are not for you, feel free to skip. There is

no non-consent, abuse, or violence

beyond the scope of negotiated kink.

This chapter explores a woman's return to partnered intimacy after a long time alone. What begins as a nervous first encounter turns into a raw, vulnerable journey into surrender, craving, and the erotic ache of being wanted -- and denied.

This is a standalone story, but part of a wider theme I'm exploring. If it lands well, there may be more from these two.

She didn't knock straight away. She stood frozen, staring at the 304 like it might vanish if she dared to blink. The hallway buzzed--fluorescent lights flickering overhead, harsh in that cheap, too-real way. Her legs trembled. One more step, and she'd go down. She was sure of it. She was sure the dress had become tighter during the journey here.

Part of her wanted to flee. How could he want her? What if he didn't want her in the end? What if he took one look at her and decided he wasn't up for it? She couldn't face the rejection. He could have anyone he wanted. He had had anyone he wanted. He'd been with women who looked like they belonged on magazine covers. She was not. Why did he want her?

But the other side of her wanted to stay. Ached for his touch--skin against skin, real and electric. Wanted it to be him that broke the spell of time since she had taken a cock in her pussy. 12 years. She had been considering breaking that for a long time. But she hadn't found a man she could trust. Yet, for some reason, this was someone she felt she could rely on.

Her phone vibrated:

No pressure. But if you knock, I won't let you go until you forget your name.

She read it once.

Then reached up and knocked. Her hand hadn't even returned to her side when the door opened. He stood there smiling. Soft, friendly. But there was heat behind it. Hunger barely leashed. He stepped aside, silent, making space for her to cross the threshold.

As she passed him, the scent hit her. Warm. Clean. Sharp at the edges--like soap, skin, and something darker underneath. Not cologne. Not perfume. Just him. Like a man who knew exactly how to touch her. Her knees almost buckled. She took a few steps inside, then stopped and turned.

He pushed the door--it clicked nearly shut behind him--then crossed the space between them in one smooth step. His body met hers--solid, warm, unignorable. He paused, eyes searching hers. Waiting. Her lips parted just slightly. That was all he needed.

He kissed her--slow, sure, claiming.

Breathless, she pulled back just enough to search his face. Looking for doubt. Hesitation.

There was none.

"You made it,"

he said, voice low. Steady.

A shaky breath slipped out of her--half relief, half nerves.

"I almost didn't."

He smiled--small, knowing.

"But you did."

Then he kissed her again--deeper this time. His tongue found hers, slow and deliberate. They moved together like they'd done this a thousand times in dreams. Not rushed. Just... inevitable.

She suddenly realised she hadn't moved--just stood there, letting him kiss her, breath shallow, body locked. Coming back to herself, unsure, she let her hands drift forward, hesitant, until they found his hips. Warm. Solid. Real. She exhaled as her fingers settled there, grounding herself in him.

This time, it was he who pulled away first.

"I'm not going to push you further than you want to go,"

he said, voice low, steady.

"I know,"

she whispered.

"It's not that."

He waited, watching her--patient but focused. She exhaled, and then everything spilled out.

"Remember what I told you a few weeks ago? About not getting why you'd want me? When you could have--"

Her hands fluttered helplessly.

"Women who are confident, stunning, who know how to be sexy and don't flinch every time someone touches them."

Her voice started to break.

"And then there's me--awkward, in my own head, picking apart every inch of myself, hoping the lights are off so I don't have to see the look on your face when--"

He kissed her. Hard. It cut her off mid-sentence. No warning. No lead-in. Just his mouth on hers--demanding, silencing. Telling her enough. She froze for a second. Then, melted--because the kiss wasn't cruel. It was intentional. He kissed her like he was trying to erase every bad thought she'd ever had about herself. As if she were the only thing he wanted.

His hand moved to the front of her dress, fingers brushing the zipper below her collarbone. He paused against her lips, then tugged the zipper down just a little. She sighed into his mouth, her body softening against him, lips parting with a quiet moan.

That sound--needy, unguarded--was enough. He kept going. Slowly, deliberately, he drew the zipper down to her stomach. The fabric parted, falling open to reveal the red lace she'd promised him.

He pulled back just enough to look. To really see her. He kept his hand on her hip so that she felt reassured. The way the red lace clung to her flushed skin hit him like a punch.

She stood there, half undone, breathless.

"You're unreal,"

he murmured, lips brushing hers.

As their mouths moved, he slid the zipper all the way down, his hands pushing the fabric from her shoulders. The dress slipped, pooling at her feet. His lips found her neck warm and open. He kissed along her throat, slow and reverent, while one hand rose to trace the lace over her breasts--fingertips lingering, learning her shape.

She arched into the touch without thinking, breath catching in his mouth.

This time, he stepped back fully, his eyes sweeping over her. Red lace hugged her curves like it had been made just for her--bold against her skin, delicate over the swell of her breasts. The bra framed her perfectly, a whisper of transparency teasing what it didn't quite reveal, and the matching panties clung to her hips like a secret worth keeping.

She looked breathtaking. And completely, undeniably, his.

He stepped back in, close enough that her breath caught. One hand slid around her waist, the other brushing her hair aside as he leaned in, his mouth at her ear.

"Spread your legs for me,"

he murmured--low, steady, not asking.

A shiver ran through her. She obeyed.

He kissed her--slow and claiming--while his hand moved down, fingers gliding over the lace between her thighs until they found her clit. She gasped into his mouth, hips jolting at the contact.

He didn't stop. Just kissed her deeper, fingers circling with deliberate pressure. Like he could read her--knew what she needed before she even knew to want it. His lips found her neck again, kissing along the curve slowly, then deeper.

The pressure built with each pass, soft, giving way to teeth, to intent. She gasped, her head tipping slightly to give him more. His hand was still between her legs, fingers circling her clit with maddening precision. Deliberate. Focused. Like he was reading her pulse through his touch.

Then he spoke, voice low and rough at her throat:

"When you're close--"

Another kiss, hotter now, just beneath her jaw.

"--you have to tell me."

She whimpered, hips twitching against his hand. His fingers moved faster now, still circling, but with more pressure, more intent. She clung to his shoulders, breath coming fast, hips rolling into his hand like she couldn't help it. Her body was tight, trembling, chasing it.

"I'm--"

she gasped, voice breaking.

"I'm gonna come--"

And then he stopped. Just like that.

The sudden loss made her gasp--like the air had been sucked out of the room. Her whole body jolted, clenching around nothing. She whimpered--confused, desperate, wrecked. He didn't move away. Didn't speak yet. Just stayed close, his hand still resting between her thighs--warm, steady, denying.

"I did say you would be begging me,"

he murmured in her ear. She moaned against his neck.

She stood there, trembling, still pulsing from the edge he'd left her on. Her breath was ragged, fingers clenching at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them.

He took her hand and led her to the bed. At the edge, he turned her, pressing her gently forward until her hands met the mattress. Her breath caught. His body lined up behind hers, heat and weight unmistakable. He leaned in, lips at her ear, and told her--quiet, certain--exactly how he was going to take her. Her legs almost buckled, but he caught her. His hand moved up the inside of her thigh, slow and certain. Fingers brushed the lace, then slipped beneath it, finding her soaking wet cunt without hesitation. She gasped--hips twitching as he pressed two fingers into her, deep and steady.

"Fuck, you are so wet!"

he groaned against her ear.

She buried her face in the mattress, biting down as her hips moved to meet each thrust of his hand. Her body welcomed him--greedy, trembling, clenching around his fingers with every push. When he slid a third finger in, the stretch made her moan, raw and broken.

He moved harder now, rhythm relentless, each thrust bringing her closer to the edge. He could feel it in the way her pussy tightened around his fingers, the way her breath caught and stuttered--she was right there, barely holding on.

And he didn't stop.

Didn't ease up.

If anything, he drove her harder because watching her fight gave him every reason not to let her win.

"Remember the rule,"

he murmured at her ear, a wicked edge to his voice.

"You're not allowed to come."

Her answer was a broken sob.

"I can't-- I have to--"

But her body was already gone. The orgasm hit hard, shattering through her as she cried out, legs shaking, juices spilling over his hand and onto the floor.

"Oh, baby girl... what did I say?"

he murmured, voice low, teasing--but with an edge.

Smack.

His hand came down hard on her left cheek, the sharp sound cracking through the air. She gasped, hips jerking, breath catching.

"I warned you there'd be consequences if you broke the rule,"

he said, voice cooler now--calm, deliberate.

"So here's what's going to happen."

He leaned in close, hand resting heavy on her skin.

"Just my hand. Like we agreed. You'll count each one. Out loud. Understood?"

The first strike made her flinch--sharp and sudden, it lit up her skin in an instant. Her breath hitched, the sting sinking in slowly and heat curling beneath the surface.

"One,"

she said, barely louder than a breath.

Another landed. Her hips jerked forward, hands clenching the sheets. He caught her again, firm and grounding. The burn deepened, warmth spreading in its wake as though it had a pulse of its own.

"Two."

By the third, her thighs were trembling. Her skin ached where his hand had marked her, but underneath the sting was something else--something low and liquid that pulled her deeper into it.

"Three..."

She pressed her forehead against the mattress, her fingers curled tightly. Her whole body was buzzing now--nerves lit, breath ragged. She didn't want him to stop. Not yet.

By seven, her pussy was dripping--hips trembling, breath broken, every strike leaving her deeper in surrender. By then, there was nothing left of her but heat and heartbeat, raw and open, completely his. Desperately wanting.

Her skin was flushed, marked by him, rising and falling with every unsteady breath. For a moment, all he did was watch her, the way her body shook beneath his hands, open and waiting.

Then she heard it--a zipper sliding down. The sound was quiet, but it cut through the air like a promise. She shuddered as he pushed the lace aside, fingers lingering just long enough to feel the heat of her.

He didn't hesitate. He drove into her--hard, deep, no warning. Her body jolted, the sudden stretch ripping a cry from her throat. One hand locked around her hip, holding her in place; the other slid between her legs, fingers finding her clit with practised pressure.

He didn't hold back--every thrust full of heat and intent --each thrust ruthless, unrelenting, his pace brutal in the best way. She could barely breathe, caught between the thick, relentless drive of him inside her and the circling drag of his fingers that lit her up from the inside out.

She tried to keep herself upright, but her arms were shaking, barely holding her. Every part of her was clenching--tight around him, too full, too much--and yet somehow, not enough.

He didn't let up--not even a little. The pace stayed brutal, each thrust punching a sound out of her, loud and unfiltered. She was already trembling, overstimulated, flushed all over--but he didn't care.

"You already got yours,"

he growled.

"Now it's my turn."

He reached down, hooked his arm under her thigh, and lifted--planting her right leg up onto the edge of the mattress. The new angle opened her up completely, more deeply, more rawly. She gasped--half a cry, half a curse.

He drove into her again, harder than before. She had no footing, no control, just the drag of his cock and the sharp heat of his fingers still grinding against her clit. She was gone--wrecked, taken. He held her there, split wide open, and fucked her like he was chasing something only he had the right to finish.

His grip tightened on her hip, bruising, as his thrusts turned ragged--less rhythm now, more need. She felt the shift in him, the way his breath caught, the way his body locked in against hers, driving deeper, harder, right to the edge.

And then he buried himself, all the way in, holding there--deep, unmoving his release hit.

She felt it, the first pulse inside her, thick and hot, followed by another and another. He stayed pressed to the hilt, one hand still clamped around her thigh, the other braced tight at her waist, keeping her right where he wanted her.

That tipped her over--no warning, no time to brace.

The sensation of him pulsing inside her, the heat, the weight, the sheer possession of it--she came undone again. No warning, no sound at first--just her body seizing around him, tensing hard, a full-body quake that stole her breath and dragged her under. Her head dropped to the mattress, arms collapsing, a moan slipping from her lips as the orgasm tore through her, slow and overwhelming.

And still, he held her there.

She lay there quivering, her breath shallow, her body still pulsing from the aftershocks. Her limbs were loose, mind spinning, wrecked in the best possible way--but he wasn't finished.

He leaned over her, voice low against her ear.

"You still with me?"

he murmured.

"Want more?"

She nodded before she could even find her voice.

"Yes... please."

That was all he needed.

He pulled out slowly, and the loss made her gasp. Before the sound had fully left her throat, his hands were on her again--firm, unyielding, guiding her to her back.

She didn't resist. She couldn't. Every part of her felt open, ready.

One by one, he took her wrists and stretched them toward the top corners of the bed, locking the cuffs into place with quiet, deliberate clicks. Then her legs--he adjusted her hips, nudging her thighs apart, securing her ankles wide to the lower corners. The mattress shifted beneath her, and leather tightened around the skin until there was nowhere left to go.

Her fingers twitched, instinctively trying to reach for him, then stilled, the cuffs a quiet reminder she couldn't.

She was spread open--arms and legs bound, back arched slightly with nothing to cover her. Vulnerable.

Then came the blindfold.

He leaned over her, hands brushing her face as he slipped the soft fabric over her eyes and tied it behind her head. Darkness fell instantly, deep and complete. Now, she couldn't see. Couldn't move. All she could do was feel.

The air shifted. She felt the weight of him beside her. He watched. She felt it--the heat of his gaze crawling over every inch of her skin. It made her shiver harder than the cold ever could.

Then she heard it. A soft swish through the air. No contact. Just a sound.

Another--closer this time. Still not touching her, but her whole body flinched anyway, tightening in anticipation. She didn't know what it was--leather, rubber, fabric--but it moved with intent.

She gripped the cuffs harder, her breath caught just behind her teeth.

Then it landed.

A sharp, clean strike across the top of her thigh. Not hard. Not cruel. But direct. Focused. Her breath rushed out of her in a stuttering gasp, and she pulled reflexively against the restraints. Not to escape--just reacting. Her body lit up like the skin he touched had been waiting for this kind of awakening all its life.

Then came the second, across the opposite thigh, just a touch lower. It stung more. Her hips jolted, and a moan slipped out before she could stop it.

She froze. That sound--her sound--wasn't something she meant to give him. And now it was hanging in the air like a confession.

The next moment held nothing. No strike. No sound. Just her, panting in the dark, strung out and exposed, her chest rising and falling too fast. The anticipation crawled over her skin like static, made worse by how calm he was. He hadn't said a word.

Was he watching her squirm? Was he smiling? Did he even need to touch her again, or was this enough?

Her thoughts spun too fast to hold onto any of them.

Then his voice, quiet and steady, cut through everything.

"Colour?"

She swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry. Her body was not.

"Green,"

she whispered.

He didn't answer.

This time, the strike landed beneath her ribs, on her left side. A sting that felt more direct, more personal. Her back arched, breath punching out of her. It was too much--and not enough. Her brain struggled to keep pace with her body, but it couldn't.

Another, just below her hipbone. Then another, over the same line on her right thigh. She writhed now, restrained but responsive, the cuffs catching the small jerks of her limbs. Each hit was a spark; each pause was a question she couldn't answer.

Somewhere in the haze of it, she realised she wasn't trying to endure this. She was reaching for it. Her body, traitorous and desperate, wanted more.

Just as the burn began to turn sharp, his hand touched her again--palm pressed to her stomach, grounding her. Another hand on her inner thigh, warm, confident, right before it slowly slid upward.

She moaned, hips trembling. Her skin was alive everywhere--tingling, stretched, aching. She didn't know what she wanted anymore, only that if he stopped now, she might actually fall apart.

She heard him move--barely a shift in weight on the bed, the faint creak of the mattress. Then warmth, sudden and solid, between her legs.

His hands slid up the insides of her thighs, slow and sure, spreading her wider. She gasped at the contact, at how exposed she felt--blindfolded, bound, and now open under the weight of his attention.

He didn't speak. Didn't warn her. He just tasted her.

The first touch of his mouth made her cry out--sharp, helpless. His tongue was hot, deliberate and slow at first. He licked her like he meant it like he wanted it more than anything. Not a tease. Not gentle. Just focused. Hungry.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Her hips tried to lift, to chase his mouth, but the cuffs held her down. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the rhythm of his tongue, the way his mouth worked her over like he was memorising every reaction.