Her anal twitched.
The tight, dark, recently-used rim of her ass was exposed — pulled open by the spread of her tied legs, the muscle clenching and releasing with the involuntary, nervous rhythm of a body that knew what was coming and could not prepare.
"It hurts," she whispered.
Not from the ropes. Not from the position. From the anticipation — the deep, gnawing, shamefully eager anticipation of a body that had been fucked for hours and was already aching for more.
Her mind was too addicted.
She didn't want to admit it. But the blood flow he had controlled — the continuous, heightened, amplified engorgement of her cunt and clit — had rewired her body's responses. She was wet. She was throbbing. She was leaking onto the leather beneath her.
Viktor placed his cock against her anal.
The thick, blunt, hot head of him pressed against the twitching rim. He didn't push in. Not yet. He simply held there — the pressure constant, the promise implicit, the threat absolute.
