Mighty Mistress backstage

I came across her on set one afternoon, small thing, hair like ink against pale skin. From that moment I carried her home with me. The idea of taking my time, of keeping everything between four walls, had already set between my thighs. I didn’t need props or cameras. Just her body bound to my bed, wrists caught in soft rope, knees spread wide so nothing could hide. She looked nervous and hungry at once. When my fingers finally pushed inside her, slick and unhurried, the first cry tore straight from her chest. I kept pressing deeper, watching her eyes widen as the second finger followed, then a third. Her cunt clenched greedily, the wet sound of each thrust filling the room like confession. I curled my fingers just so, thumb rubbing lazy circles over her clit, and the begging began. Higher, faster, trembling. She tried to stay quiet at first; by the third orgasm the words spilled without shame. Please, harder. Please, don’t stop. I granted neither mercy nor mercy denial. I kept her shaking until her voice cracked raw, until the sheets beneath her hips were dark with the slick she couldn’t hold back. A well-trained mouth knows when to give tongue and when to withdraw it. I withdrew. She sobbed at the loss until I turned her over, pulled her hips high, and buried two fingers again without warning. The new angle punched sounds out of her I had never heard before. Each forward thrust dragged a fresh cry, each withdrawal made her buck backward for more. I stayed there until her thighs gave out and she sank into the mattress, trembling, cunt twitching around nothing, breathing my name like a dirty prayer.