The Ribbon Test (Final Part)
His approval hums in the air between us, making the tension in my body snap, like a bowstring pulled too tight. He leans over me, his breath a whisper against my skin, his lips brushing ever so lightly over the tender flesh of my neck.
I arch instinctively, my skin alight with the electricity of his touch. My body craves more, the desire intensifying with every second that he holds me suspended between anticipation and fulfillment.
“Good girl,” he murmurs again, his voice thick with satisfaction, but the control in it—the authority that wraps around each word—has me trembling beneath him.
His hands trace down my body, lingering on the curve of my waist before slipping lower. He stops just short of where I need him most.
“I’m going to make you wait,” he says, and I know it’s not a question. It’s a command.
I exhale, my chest heaving, as I shift against the silk ribbons that hold me captive. Their smoothness glides over my skin, teasing rather than biting, but the restraint is no less real. Each small motion only intensifies the ache.
“Please…” I whisper, the words coming out barely audible. But he hears.
He pauses.
“You’ve been a brat, haven’t you?” His voice is low, dangerous, and I feel the full weight of it settle on my chest. “Teasing me, breaking the rules.”
I wince at the reminder, a quiet plea escaping my lips. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Are you? Or are you just begging for more punishment?” His tone softens slightly, but I know it’s a test.
“I’m begging, Sir,” I admit, my voice trembling with need. I’m far past pride now—surrender has become my only choice.
A sharp breath escapes me as his fingers slide between my legs, brushing over the edge of my most sensitive spots. I feel him smile against my skin when my body shudders in response.
“I’m going to give you what you need,” he says, his voice steady, filled with a quiet, certain command.
With one swift motion, he undoes the bindings around my wrists, and my hands are free, but I don’t move. I stay exactly where I am, my body open, exposed, trusting him completely.
He pauses, taking in the sight of me—helpless, desperate, a willing victim to his control.
“You’re mine now,” he says, and it isn’t a statement—it’s a claim.
And in that moment, I belong to him.
His hand moves to my hair, tugging me forward as his lips press to mine, deep and demanding, consuming the last traces of my restraint. There’s no space left for anything but him. I am lost in the rhythm of his movements, the slow and steady pressure building to a crescendo.
I cry out when his touch finally becomes more than I can handle, the release—a slow, smoldering burn erupts into a wildfire, spreading through every nerve until I’m lost in the heat of it. He doesn’t stop. His hands continue to explore, pressing and pulling me deeper into the depths of my submission.
I am left raw, broken open, and completely his.
When the haze finally clears, and I can breathe again, his eyes meet mine—dark and full of satisfaction. There is no question in his gaze, no hesitation. He has taken every part of me.
And I’ve given it all.
♥️
