Bratting the Dominant (2c3b)

 Chapter 3: Crimson Web

The vibrator is still pressed deep inside you, humming at full power, and your whole body is trembling on the edge. Your hips strain against the ropes, trying to lift, trying to chase the release that's so close you can taste it.

He watches you. Studies you. The warm smile is still there, but something else flickers behind his eyes. A calculation.

He pulls the vibrator out.

The sound that escapes you is almost a sob. Your legs fall open, limp, and you lie there panting, your chest heaving against the rope harness.

"I know," he says softly. "I know."

He sets the vibrator aside and reaches for his bag. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he pulls out another length of rope. This one is longer, a deep crimson that stands out against the dark gray sheets.

He holds it up so you can see it.

"Crotch rope," he says. "You've worn one before."

You have. Twice. Both times during scenes that left you trembling and soaked, the rope pressed against your cunt, grinding against your clit with every movement.

"But never like this," he continues. "Never while you're tied open. Never while you're begging."

He crawls up the bed, settling between your legs. The rope is cool against your inner thigh as he drapes it across your skin.

"This is going to be very, very intimate," he says. "If you need to safeword, you do it. Understood?"

"Understood."

He begins at your waist. The rope wraps around your hips, cinching tight above your hip bones. Then he runs a length down, between your legs, and your breath catches as the jute slides against your slick folds.

He pulls it taut.

The pressure is immediate and devastating. The rope presses against your clit, against your entrance, grinding into the most sensitive parts of you. Your hips buck involuntarily, and the movement only drives the rope deeper.

"There," he murmurs. "That's where I want you."

He secures the rope at your lower back, pulling it tight enough that the tension is constant. Then he runs another length up your spine, connecting it to the chest harness. Every shift of your body pulls the rope against your cunt.

You're trapped in a web of your own making.

He sits back, admiring his work. His eyes travel the length of your body—the rope harness framing your breasts, the crimson line disappearing between your legs, the way your thighs tremble with the effort of staying still.

"Look at you," he says. "So beautiful. So mine."

The word hits you like a physical blow. Your throat tightens, and fresh tears prick at your eyes.

He reaches for the vibrator again.

"No," you whisper.

"Yes."

He presses the vibrator against your clit, on top of the rope. The vibration travels through the jute, amplifying the sensation, and you cry out. The rope grinds against your clit with every pulse, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, the silk of your arousal coating the fibers.

He moves the vibrator in slow circles, pressing the rope deeper into your flesh. Your hands clench into fists above your head, and your back arches off the mattress.

"Please," you gasp. "Please, I can't—"

"You can." His voice is calm, steady. "You can take more than you think."

He speeds up the vibrator, and the rope becomes a weapon of pure sensation. Every circle drags the jute across your clit, and the friction is maddening. You're so close, the edge so near, and you know he's going to pull it away again.

"Please let me come," you say, and your voice cracks on the last word.

"Not yet."

He pulls the vibrator away.

The sob that tears from your throat is raw and ugly. Your whole body shakes, and the rope grinds against your cunt as you squirm, chasing the sensation that's already fading.

"Look at you," he says, and his voice is softer now. "So desperate. So open."

He reaches between your legs and tugs the rope, adjusting the tension. The movement pulls the jute against your clit, and you gasp.

"Tell me again," he says. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to belong to you." The words come easily now, the wall crumbling. "I want to be yours. I want you to keep me."

He leans down, presses his lips to your stomach, just above the rope harness. His breath is warm against your skin.

"You're mine," he says. "You've been mine since the first night you knelt for me."

He kisses lower, tracing a path down your belly. His lips brush the rope where it crosses your hip, then lower, until his mouth is hovering just above your cunt.

You can feel his breath against the rope, against your slick flesh. Your hips lift, begging without words.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and intent.

"I'm going to make you come," he says. "But first, I'm going to taste you."

His tongue touches your clit, just above the rope. The sensation is electric, and you cry out, your back arching. He licks along the rope, tasting you through the jute, and the texture is rough against his tongue, against your skin.

He pulls the rope aside with his fingers and presses his mouth directly to your cunt.

The first lick is slow, deliberate. His tongue traces your folds, circles your clit, dips inside you. You're so sensitive that every touch feels like an overload, and your hips buck against his face.

He hums against you, a low sound of approval, and the vibration travels through your entire body.

He pulls back, just enough to speak.

"You taste like surrender," he says.

Then he's on you again, his tongue working in firm, rhythmic strokes. He finds your clit and focuses there, circling, pressing, flicking. Your hands clench into fists, and the ropes bite into your wrists as you pull against them.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let go. Let me have it."

The orgasm builds like a wave, crashing through every defense you've built. Your vision blurs, and your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Your whole body tenses, arches, and then breaks.

The pleasure is blinding. It radiates from your cunt, through your pelvis, up your spine. Your legs shake, your stomach clenches, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, desperate for something to fill the emptiness.

He doesn't stop. His tongue keeps working, drawing out every wave, until you're sobbing, begging him to stop, begging him to never stop.

Finally, he pulls back. His chin is slick, his lips glistening. He looks at you with something like reverence.

"There," he says softly. "There's my good girl."

The words wash over you, warm and healing. You lie there, limp, spent, the ropes holding you open, the crotch rope pressed against your oversensitive cunt.

He crawls up the bed, settles beside you, and brushes the hair from your face.

"How do you feel?"

You take a shaky breath. "Empty."

"Empty how?"

"Empty like..." You search for the words. "Like there's still something missing."

He smiles, slow and knowing.

"I know," he says. "That's because there is."

He reaches for his belt.

(More to come)