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She knows what she wants. Today, it’s time.
She’s never met a girl she couldn’t break, and her newest prize is no exception. She’s beautiful. Spirited. Will this new girl be a keeper, or will she become just a toy, like all the others?
Warnings: lesbian kidnapping fantasy, female domination, bondage, strap-on, oral, anal. Contains very strong language and explicit sexual content between adults aged 18 and over. Adult-only themes may offend or disturb some readers.
Her Secret Dungeon is recommended for daring readers who love lesbian kidnapping fantasies.
She’s quiet now, barely a whimper escaping her mouth. I touch her shoulders, trailing my hand down over her smooth, sweat-slicked skin. Her hands bunch into fists, bound together in a sheath of rope that extends from her forearms to her wrists, forcing her arms over her head.
The air is still. Nothing moves except for my fingers, gliding over her body, tracing every red line marked on her flesh.
The ropes creak. Her hair falls forwards to hide her face, and she inhales sharply when I run my fingers under the curve of her breasts. Her skin there remains untouched, a blank canvas for my questing hands.
She’s changed since I’ve found her. No longer that girl sitting at that coffee shop, laughing, flirting, twirling her hair around her fingers. My hands close around her ribs, feeling their faint outlines. Every day, every hour spent with me strips a little more away from her, until all that’s left is mine alone. My Galatea.
The smooth curves of her ass are criss-crossed with lines, narrow and red as virgin blood. She flinches when I touch them, rising up on her toes to arch away from me.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, running my nail across a welt.
She tugs down on the rope, and sways on her feet, her bare toes scuffing the concrete floor.
It’s been long enough. I unhook the carabiner pinning her to the ceiling, and she drops to her knees, arms still bound before her. I take my time, putting away the stepladder; everything in its place. Including her.
It takes slightly longer to unwind the rope from her skin, the knots pulled tight by resistance and gravity. She doesn’t look at me, slumped with her knees pressed together.
She lurches to her feet, hugging her arms close to her, rubbing at the red marks. I stand aside as she regains her balance.
“Please,” she says. “Please, may I dress first?”
Her skin was molten when I touched her, but she shivers all the same. I’m not without mercy. “You may.”
She has nothing but a T-shirt at hand, folded neatly under the rack of my favourite toys. She tugs it over her head, and it hangs loosely from her body, the hem short enough to expose the curve of her ass. It’s a hand-me-down, and the neck gapes, the fabric worn and fraying. Somehow it makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
She walks to me. If there’s fear in her eyes, she hides it well. I tilt her chin up to kiss her. She has always been a great kisser; respectful, dynamic. Her mouth is soft under mine.
“On the bed, please.”
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