Bedbound Sugar Mama

Lilly’s got Little Puck wrapped around her finger and the spoiled life fits like silk. Still, every time they fuck, Little Puck gets tunnel vision—straight to the main event, no detours. Lilly’s tired of the fast lane. She wants every kiss, every touch to drag and burn. So she asks if she can flip the script, tie Puck down and call the shots. Puck grins, says yes, and soon the leather around her wrists creaks against the bedposts. Lilly keeps her waiting, teasing with slow hands and wet fingers, mouth grazing everywhere Puck’s not expecting. When she finally buckles the harness and pushes the thick strap between Puck’s spread thighs, she slides in inch by inch until Puck’s pulling at the knots. Fingers follow later, slick fist easing deeper while Puck curses and begs for more but gets none. The rhythm stays unhurried, obscene and deliberate, until the woman who thought she was in charge lies spent, twitching, and utterly wrung out under Lilly’s steady grip.