The wet, obscene sounds filled the air immediately, your fingers plunging in and out, your mōans turning into broken sobs.
“You like that, don’t you? Fücking your own desperate hole because I told you to. You’re nothing but a set of holes for my amusement.”
You whimpered, your hips starting to match the rhythm of your hand, fücking yourself onto your own fingers. Your other hand came up to pinch and pull at your nipplē, twisting it roughly. You were putting on a show, trying to please me. It was working.
Your pace turned frantic, palm slapping against your clìt, and I waited.
I waited until your whole body was shaking, right on the brink, tears streaming.
Then,
“Stop.”
Your hand froze, fingers still buried deep, a desperate whine ripping from your throat.
“Pull them out. Slowly. No
