Sir didn't waste a second.
The cuffs came free with a few quick, practised motions--click, snap, release. Her arms dropped like dead weight, thudding limply to her sides. She sagged, too far gone to hold herself up. Her legs gave out.
But he was already there, catching her before she collapsed. Those broad hands caught her like they always did--calm, sure, steady. He held her a moment long enough to steady her swaying form, then he lifted her. Effortless.
She didn't resist. Couldn't.
Her head lolled against his chest as he carried her across the dungeon floor, her skin flushed and clammy, lashes wet and trembling. He laid her down beside the spanking bench with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with everything he'd done before, like she was precious now. Like she was breakable.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes landed on the black leather and gleaming metal rings, and something inside her seemed to snap.
Panic. Pure and sharp.
She tried to move, scrambled weakly to her knees, chest rising and falling in shallow, broken gasps. Her arms reached for him, clinging, pleading.
"Please," she rasped, voice cracking. "Please, Sir, I'll--I'll take your cock, I swear, I'll take every inch down my thoat, I'll do anything, just--just not that--"
It all came spilling out in a single, jagged breath. No thought. No pride. Just need. Desperate, ugly need. Her eyes flicked toward me, then the thick strap-on which jutted from my hips--dark, heavy, impossible to ignore. It wasn't subtle. It was made to stretch. To break. She knew that.
Sir didn't speak right away. He just let her beg. Let her degrade herself, let her spiral lower.
Then he crouched, slow and deliberate, and slid his fingers through her sweat-matted hair. She leaned into him like a drowning girl, grateful for even that. For any touch that didn't hurt.
And then he fisted her hair and yanked her head back hard.
"You don't decide your punishment," he said. His voice was soft. Too soft. The kind of softness that chilled. "You'll take what you're given."
Her breath caught.
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
"Up."
She moved. Or tried to. Her limbs didn't want to cooperate. She crawled to the bench, clumsy and shaking, trying to hold the correct position. Knees wide. Chest down. Arms forward. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't elegant.
It was obedience.
She was offering herself up, knowing exactly what she would receive.
I knelt beside her, wordless. The chains clinked as I fastened her wrists, then her ankles--each cuff snapping shut with that brutal click. One by one.
No escape. No mercy. No way out.
She was mine now. Fully and finally. I'd been waiting for this--longing for it--the moment she'd be restrained, trembling, helpless beneath me. I rose slowly, letting her feel my presence. Letting her dread it.
The strap-on jutted from my hips, thick and unforgiving, catching the light as I stepped closer. She couldn't see me. But she could feel the heat of my body. The threat of what I held. She could smell her own fear.
I leaned down, letting my breath skate along the shell of her ear.
"Tell me, little one," I purred. "What'll come first--my orgasm..."
And then I shoved three fingers inside her. Hard.
She cried out--a strangled, wrecked sound--as her body clamped down, slick and helpless. God, she was wet. Wet and trembling and torn open by need and fear.
