May The Lord Forgive You

Christina has him on his knees before her, bound with silk scarves and stripped bare. She calls him Zazy now. Mine, she says. Her nails rake down his chest as she sinks onto him without warning, taking every inch in one smooth motion. He gasps. She rides him slowly, hips rolling like she's made for this—sharp, controlled, mercilessly wet. Every clench of her cunt makes him twitch inside her. He doesn't come until she tells him. Doesn't breathe until she allows it. And when she leans down to whisper filth against his ear, he shudders like the perfect little thing he is. They fit. She owns. He melts.