Chapter Seven –
Sandra crumpled in Tate's arms as he hauled her into his playroom and shoved her onto the floor. His cock pulsed, slowly swelling to life against the cotton of his boxer briefs as she peered up at him with wide, watery eyes, the roughed plait of her braid untwisted, her quivering chin, stained with her lipstick. The aching curve of her supple left breast was in danger of slipping out of her sweetheart sleeves, drooping down her shoulder, the run of her sheer, black pantyhose exposing a slice of her plump thigh. She looked utterly humiliated, and to Tate, she couldn't have been more beautiful than that very moment – all he wanted to do was pounce on her and rip her tight pussy apart while she begged him to stop, secretly relishing the mixture of pain and pleasure.
“Get the fuck back on that bench, you dirty little whore.”
Sandra got on all fours without being told, and hiked the flowing hem of her skirt over her waist, scrunching up the fabric in a ball and stuffing it in her mouth. Slowly, she crawled towards the sinister steel bench, the thick, fleshy curves of her bubble-shaped cheeks jiggling with each step she took. She snuck furtive, yearning glances at Tate as he rubbed the bulge of his erection through his dress pants.
“Good fucking slut, giving Daddy what he wants.”
Tate hoisted her onto the bench, face down, Sandra wincing at the sudden friction between her arms and the cool, leathery cushion. He shackled her arms together in front of her as she leaned forward, her back arching on the inclined surface, and roped her legs together behind her. Sandra craned her neck, peeking at Tate, yelping as he stunned her with an open-palm smack across her face. She moaned, the sopping folds between her legs contracting, her cheek numbing.
“I didn't say you could look at me, slut. Keep your eyes forward.”
Sandra submitted, staring straight ahead as Tate attached the rope around her hands to a dangling bell on the ceiling. He loosened his silver silk tie, draping it over her eyes, tightening the knots behind her blindfold. She panted, spots swirling in her pitch-black vision, wheezing out her mouth as he stuffed a crumpled, damp cloth in her mouth, stifling her cries.
Tate peeled off his pants and brushed off the buttons to his dress shirt, translucent through his pouring sweat, his thick erection aching as it throbbed in his fingers. He leaned over, pushing his face close to the crotch of her pantyhose, the pungent, musky aroma wafting out of her folds. He rubbed his fingers against the slick, lubricated sheerness drenching through her pantyhose, grunting noisily under his breath as he ripped a small hole, revealing her wet, pulsing hole.
“No panties,” smirked Tate, gritting his teeth as he shred off the rest of her pantyhose with his fingers, “You little slut.”
Sandra arched her back in excitement, writhing and convulsing pathetically in her petrified state. She gnawed at the balled up cloth in her drooling mouth, squeaking helplessly as Tate grabbed hold of one cheek in one hand, his fingernails clawing into the creases of her flesh, slapping her other cheek with his free hand. Disoriented, she shrieked in surprise as a glob of scorching heat seeped into the flesh of her back, her thighs trembling uncontrollably.
Tate stood above her, his sleeves rolled up and speckled with splotches of red wax, holding a flickering flame against the melting candle, a beautiful, raw, hardened mosaic, flowering on her back, the splashes of reds and oranges tainting the canvas of her flawless flesh. He watched as she wriggled and thrashed, her vulnerability almost too much for him to handle. He wanted to see more – her sweet, naïve expressions contorting to agonized grimaces of pain, the way she looked at him meaningfully with desperate, tearful eyes, simply understanding how much she needed to be punished.
He reached over for a clothespin-clamp, clinching it against her nipple. He bit his lip, watching her squirm, her muffled yelps invigorating his throbbing cock, once again lifting the thawing candle above her. Sandra tugged forward with her hands, the golden bell jingling above her. Tate blew out the candle and chucked it to the side, shoving the full length of his cock between her folds as she shivered turbulently, his fingernails burrowing into the flesh of her full, wobbling stomach. He thrusted hard, his cock easily, noisily slipping in and out, stretching her gloriously tight crevice as he held her face down against the cushion of the bench in a pool of her drool. He groaned under his breath, pulling out, splattering his hot, sticky mess all over her back and legs.
Tate quickly undid her blindfolds and restraints, handing her a clean towel as he threw on his clothes rapidly, panting. He wiped off the sweat on his forehead with the slip of his tie, glancing over at Sandra as she lurched forward clumsily, shedding off the tatters of her pantyhose. She looked up at him questioningly. Tate glanced behind him as he stalked out the room.
“I'll be right back.”