R-18: BURNING SENSATION

Black shelves loomed like shadows of sin—cold steel, dark leather, polished glass. The tools sat in perfect order: crops, flóggers, díldos, plúgs, pàddles, clàmps, a violet wand cradled in velvet, gàgs in various shapes, ànal hooks, ropes, hoods, and restraints. It wasn’t decoration. It was declaration. Every piece had drawn cries. Every piece had made someone submit.

Bella knelt at the center of it all—nàked, collared, wrists already cúffed in padded black leather and linked together by a silver chain. Her knees pressed into the cold floor, trembling slightly, but she stayed still. Her head hung low, a sign of obedience. Her breathing was shallow, almost trembling. Every part of her ached—not just from need, but from absence. The room was quiet. She was alone. Waiting.

How she got into BDSM lifestyle wasn't pleasant, not in the slightest. She hadn't been able to find any other jobs. No one would hire her, and even her friends weren't willing to help her. So, when Reagan approached her about making her his submissive. She accepted without hesitation. The man was hot, he had money, and the séx was incredible. She couldn't ask for more. He gave her a place to stay, food; a roof over her head and clothes.

The door opened with a slow creak. The silence shattered like glass.

Shoes on hardwood. A pause. Then a click. The door closed. The lock turned.

She didn’t dare look up.

Reagan’s voice came from behind her, low and smooth. “You're already wét, aren’t you?”

She swallowed hard, nodding. Her lips parted slightly, already craving his approval like water in a desert.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Sir. I am.”

He walked past her, a slow, prowling circle. He said nothing for a long time. Just watched her like he was considering which part of her to destroy first.

"Remember your safe word?" His voice filled the small room with its husky tone, causing her to quiver in anticipation. His dark eyes never left her, drinking her in hungrily as if they'd never seen her before. Lingering at the mark he left on her neck with his teeth yesterday evening.

"Red."

"Good girl." With those two words she felt like nothing but a piece of meat under Reagan's gaze.

He reached the toy wall and selected a plug—small, jeweled, but designed for teasing. Then nípple clamps with adjustable tension screws. A ball gàg. A leather crop. A blindfold. And last, a Wartenberg pinwheel.

Bella’s heart pounded harder with every item added to the tray.

Reagan knelt beside her and gently nudged her thíghs apart. “Wider.”

She obeyed.

He applied lube with gloved fingers—clinical and firm—before pressing the plug into her àss. The burn was slow, stretching her inch by inch until it nestled inside. She móaned, breath hitching, back arching slightly.

"Good girl," he muttered. "Now stay still."

The clàmps came next. He teased her nípples to hardness, letting his cold fingers pinch and roll them until she whimpered. Then he tightened the screws, one at a time, slowly, deliberately, until she gasped.

He moved in front of her and held up the ball gàg. “Open.”

She obeyed. The silicone slid into her mouth, and he buckled it snug. Her breathing quickened. She was gàgged, plúgged, clàmped—and they hadn’t even reached the bed yet.

Reagan secured the blindfold, plunging her world into darkness. Then came the pinwheel.

She flinched at the first contact—tiny metal spikes dragging up her thígh, over her stomach, along the swell of her bréasts. It didn’t break skin, but it teased her nerve endings until she trembled violently.

"You're shaking," he whispered against her ear. "Good."

He unhooked her cuffs and dragged her to her feet, then walked her slowly to the bed. Each step with the plúg inside her made her feel more open, more helpless, more owned.

He bent her over the edge of the bed and secured her wrists above her head with rope, binding her elbows tightly together so she couldn’t move her arms at all. Then he stràpped her ankles to the legs of the bed frame, locking her in a bent-over position, her àss high, back arched, completely exposed.

Without warning, the crop struck.

A crack rang out across the room.

Bella screamed into the gàg. Another blow, lower, right under the curve of her àss. Then another—higher. A fourth, deliberately across the plúg.

The candle came next. He dripped the wax down her spine, each drop burning hotter than the last. When it hit her àss, she howled, muffled behind the gàg.

Reagan hovered over her, one hand caressing her cheek, the other sliding between her legs.

“Dripping. Fvcking filthy.”

He pulled the plug out, slow and wet, and replaced it with the head of his cock, teasing her àss before withdrawing completely.

“No,” he said flatly. “You don’t get me there. Not tonight.”

He moved between her legs. One thrúst—hard and deep—and he buried himself inside her pvssy. She nearly collapsed.

His thrústs were savage. He held her híps tight, slamming into her over and over, her móans bouncing off the gàg, raw and wild. The clamps tugged with every bounce of her bréasts, the rope búrned into her wrists.

And when she broke—

Bella screamed into the gàg as the órgasm detonated inside her. Her body convulsed violently, a torrent of wetness gushing down her thighs, soaking the sheets beneath her. Her knees buckled, arms trembling in their restraints, hips twitching helplessly as the aftershocks pulsed through her overstimulated nerves.

But Reagan didn’t stop.

He didn’t pause.

He growled behind her, breath hot against her back, and pulled out slowly—just enough to make her think he might be done.

Then he slàpped her àss, hard. Once. Twice. A third time right across the curve where her cheek met her thigh.

She whimpered into the gàg, dazed, her body screaming for rest.

“Did I say you were done?” he muttered.

He grabbed the víbrator from the nightstand—thick, black, unforgiving. Without warning, he pressed it against her still-twitching clit and flicked it on high.

Bella screamed, legs thrashing in their réstraints as the brutal vibration sent fresh àgony through her already-raw center. Her second órgasm began building instantly—sharp, cruel, and too soon.

Her body begged for mercy, but Reagan’s hand pinned the vibrator in place, unrelenting.

“Take it,” he said, low and calm, almost bored.

“Take every last fucking wave until you can’t even remember what silence feels like.”

Her entire body convulsed again—another órgasm crashing over her, faster than she could comprehend. She sqúirted again, violently, soaking the bed a second time. Her thíghs were slick. Her vision blurred behind the blindfold. Her voice cracked, muffled by the gàg, her scream fading into a pathetic whimper.

Still—Reagan didn’t stop.

He turned the víbrator down slightly but kept it pressed to her swollen clít.

He moved toward the nightstand and pulled out the Wartenberg pinwheel again—this time, dragging it lightly across her inner thígh. She twitched, instinctively trying to pull away.

“Don’t move,” he snapped.

He dragged the tiny spikes along the crease of her hip, then across the soaked, trembling lips of her pvssy—her most sensitive, most wrecked place.

She sobbed against the gàg, overwhelmed, broken open, but still holding on.

But Reagan was far from done.

He fvcked her like he owned her.

Not fast. Not brútal. This time, slow, deep, claiming thrústs—his hands grípping her thíghs, forcing her to stay open, to take every inch.

“You came for me,” he whispered. “Over and over. That’s what good girls do.”

Bella nodded through tears.

Her body shook violently with each thrust, not from pain—but from how far he’d taken her. She wasn’t herself anymore. She was his.

Slowly, with a gentleness that somehow made it even more possessive, he began untying the ropes binding her wrists to the headboard. Her arms dropped limply to the mattress. Then he unbuckled the spreader bar from her ankles. Her legs twitched, sóre and trembling. One by one, he undid the cúffs from her wrists, rubbing slow circles over the marks they left behind.

“On your knees.”

His voice snapped through the fog in her brain like a whip.

She obeyed—barely. Her muscles screamed in protest as she slid off the bed and knelt on the floor in front of him. Her legs spread wide automatically, palms resting on her thíghs, shoulders back. Her eyes locked onto his as she struggled to stay upright.

Reagan stood before her now, towering. His cóck glistened, still hard, the veins pulsing with restraint. He fisted it slowly, watching her tongue dart out to wet her lips.

“You've been such a good girl tonight,” he murmured, cupping her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Taking everything I gave you. Coming for me until you couldn’t even remember your name.”

Her mouth opened instinctively.

“No gàg this time,” he said, voice low. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

He stepped closer. Bella tilted her head back, mouth wide, tongue out, and he slid the head of his cóck against her lips.

“Look at me.”

She did—eyes glassy, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

And then he pushed forward.

She took him eagerly, the sóreness between her thíghs only amplifying the obedience now blooming in her chest. He slid in deep, fórcing her throat open, his hands tangling in her hair as he guided her movements.

“Fvck—your mouth was made for this.”

He thrust slowly at first, letting her adjust, groaning as she sucked him deeper. Her hands rested on her thighs like she’d been trained, not touching him, just letting him use her—just how he liked it.

He began to move faster, hips rolling, thrústs hitting the back of her throat. Bella gàgged once, but steadied herself. She wanted this. She needed to give him this final offering.

Reagan groaned, head tilting back, the muscles in his stomach tightening as his pace became ragged.

“Look at me when I cóme,” he growled, pulling her head back just enough so he could see her face—wét, ruined, eager.

He gripped her hair tight, hissed through his teeth, and with a deep, shuddering móan, he came in her mouth. Hot. Heavy. A rush of heat coating her tongue and throat.

She swallowed every drop.

“Open,” he said.

She obeyed. He looked down at her open mouth—empty, obedient, waiting for more.

“Good fvcking girl.”

He dropped to his knees in front of her, grabbed the back of her neck, and kissed her—filthy, slow, his tongue sliding into the mouth that had just devoured him.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

“We’re done for tonight,” he whispered, “but don’t get comfortable.”

Because tomorrow? She wouldn’t be on her knees. She’d be strapped to the cross.