The bedroom door eased open with a soft whisper of wood against carpet, and she stepped into the warm glow of the bedside lamp like she owned every inch of the air between us. Long dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the light just as it did in that green lace set she knew I couldn’t resist. The bra cups were already tugged down, her full breasts spilling free, nipples tight and flushed from the cool bedroom air. The panties—god, those panties—were the same delicate green, with those teasing cut-outs framing her smooth pussy like an invitation, garter straps hugging her thighs. She moved barefoot, that little tattoo on her ankle flashing as she crossed the room, hips swaying with lazy confidence.

I was already exactly where she’d left me: the dining-room chair dragged in and planted dead-centre facing the bed, my wrists knotted tight behind the backrest, ankles lashed to the front legs, thighs wrenched wide and roped open so my cock stood straight up, thick and aching, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The gag filled my mouth, soft fabric soaked with my own spit, turning every sound into a helpless, muffled grunt. She’d tied me like this half an hour ago with that wicked little smile, then vanished to “change,” leaving me leaking pre-cum onto my own thigh while I stared at the empty bed.

Now she was back. She glanced at me once—those dark eyes locking on mine with a spark of pure mischief—then reached for the nightstand. Her favourite vibrator, the small curved one she always swore hit every perfect spot, came into her hand like an old lover. “Mmm, hello again,” she murmured to it, voice low and velvet-rough, before turning those eyes back to me. “You’re going to watch every second, aren’t you?”