She loves the way he strains against her stroke. The way his muscles tense in his belly, the way his inner thighs twitch not knowing whether to push forward or clamp closed, helpless to do either because of the spreader bar at his feet.
She loves the way his shoulders cord. The way he grips his seat until his knuckles go white.
The sounds he makes.
Unf.
Yes, she definitely loves the sounds he makes. The groaning whimpers, the harsh intake of breaths, the moaning pleas. Of course it’s all a bit muffled because of the gag. I’m sorry about that, she thinks, communicating with her eyes as her hands continue their torturous erotic dance over his flesh, but it couldn’t be helped.
.
She rakes her eyes over his frame, raising an eyebrow at the way he’s straining against his bindings.
“Careful now,” she admonishes with a slow smile, watching him writhe. “If you twist, they’ll only get tighter.”
Her wink at this pronouncement tells him everything he needs to know: We’re just getting started.