Pixelated Chains

Andrea slid the toy inside her at 10:29 p.m., the cool silicone a sharp contrast to the heat already building within her. Her breath caught as it nestled deep, its curved head resting snug against her clit, the small nub behind teasing the sensitive skin near her arse. She was alone in her five-star Marseille hotel room, Hotel Luna, on the eighth floor, curtains open as instructed, the city glowing beyond the tall windows. Anyone in the opposite building could have seen her if they’d looked at just the right moment, and he would have loved that. But her world had narrowed to this exact sensation: stretched, filled, claimed. The moment it seated itself inside her, her thighs trembled. She was already wet, already aching. He hadn’t even called yet, and still, her body obeyed.

She’d showered as instructed, warm water rolling over her skin, softening her for him. Now she was wrapped in a loose white robe, damp at the collarbones, heart thudding. Her laptop was open. FaceTime was moments away. Tonight, he owned her from afar. His text had come earlier, crisp and clear: You’re not to cum until I do. And she would do everything in her power to make sure he came first. Her arousal thrummed not with urgency, but with the exquisite ache of wanting to please.

Her MacBook was open. Then the screen lit up, showing FaceTime ringing. That sound, that pulse, that command wrapped in an innocuous chime sent a ripple straight through her. The moment had come. Her heart raced as if the call itself had reached inside her and flipped a switch. She was being summoned. Seen. Owned.

When his face appeared, sharp-jawed and shadowed by the hotel’s low lighting, her heart kicked hard in her chest. His sleeves were rolled up, white button-down open at the neck. Jacket gone. The Istanbul skyline glinted behind him in the distance. “Good girl,” he said. No hello. Just those two words, warm and dark. Then, “Show me.”

Andrea shifted, robe parting at the thigh. She sat on the edge of the bed. The duvet was cloud soft beneath her, but her body was tight, pulsing. She tilted her screen, obeying without hesitation. Her fingers brushed the knot at her waist. She didn’t untie it yet. “I want to see your face first.”

She looked up. The ache in her throat almost overpowered the one between her legs. “I’ve missed you, Sir.”

“I know,” he said softly. Then, with a command. “Now. Robe.”

She slipped it open. The cotton whispered over her skin, baring her breasts, her belly, and the glistening pink where the toy peeked between her lips. The toy nestled visibly between her folds, but it was the stillness of her posture that caught him, the elegant tension of obedience. Her stomach was smooth and tight, perfect for the ink he’d soon command her to scrawl across it. Every inch of her was offered, posed, exposed. His.

Her body was already alive, delicious sparks of energy shooting up her spine and fizzing in the back of her mind. And Gabriel hadn’t even touched the app yet.

Gabriel leaned back in his sleek chair, which sat on casters beside the little hotel room desk, his laptop open before him. Just to the side, his phone lay face up on the desk, the control app open on that unmistakable pink screen, modes and speeds displayed in wicked little pulses. He was watching her on the full screen, hands-free now, except for the one resting idly near the trackpad. He rolled back a touch, letting the glow from the screen wash over him as he drank her in slowly, appreciatively, possessively. His obedient slut wife was exposed and waiting exactly as he liked. Every flicker of city light, every shift of her posture, every rise of her chest, he saw it all.

“Do you have the pen I told you to pack?”

She nodded. “Yes, Sir. It’s in the pocket of my robe.”

“Good. Start with ‘slut’ under your left breast. Neat. I want it legible.”

“Yes, Sir.” Her breath caught, but she obeyed, writing slowly, the tip dragging across soft skin.

“Show me.”

She lifted her breast for the camera. His eyes flared. He tapped the app, and the toy buzzed gently to life again, a soft pulse in reward. “My whore would open wider.”

Andrea spread her legs until she trembled. She kept her palms flat on her thighs. The toy responded, and the mode shifted subtly to a slow wave that rolled deep inside her. It was still low, but constant. Teasing. She could feel her heat, the pulse between her legs now rippling with his chosen rhythm, synced to the pulse of his control.

“Take a photo. Now. Face and cunt.”

“Yes, Sir.” She reached for her phone, lifted it with one hand and angled it down, the other spreading her lips wide. The toy was snug and visibly pulsing. She took the photo and sent it. Her cheeks burned.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he murmured. “Call me Sir again.”

“Thank you, Sir. I want you so badly.”

“I know you do.” He said, turning the dial up. Her body shuddered as she took the photo, and she sent it.

“I’m going to come,” he said. “Cum for me.” Her skin tingled, not just from the aftershocks but from the weight of his words. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, face close to the laptop, eyes wide. Her mouth fell open in a cry as her orgasm finally broke loose. Her whole body shuddered violently, hips jerking, thighs clenching. Her moans came raw, unfiltered, her blue eyes fluttering and wet.

Gabriel leaned in, watching her face. He saw the wild flush on her cheeks, the tremble of her lips, the soft collapse of her control. “Take one more photo. Of your face. I want to remember how you look when you’ve given me everything.”

Andrea reached for her phone. She was flushed, hair wild, mouth kissed open by pleasure. She took the photo and sent it. The toy was still going merciless now. What had once been a pleasure had turned into an ache. Just as her breath stuttered, Gabriel tapped the app. Instantly, it stopped.

Relief washed through her in a trembling exhale. “Yes, Sir.” He said, turning the dial down again. Her skin tingled, not just from the aftershocks but from the weight of his words.

“Good girl,” he said. She pulled on the robe, but the words still seemed to glow beneath the fabric, lingering on her skin like a signature. Hidden in soft flesh and warm folds, they pulsed with residual heat and meaning. Tomorrow, under her blouse and neatly pressed suit skirt, she’d carry his marks. His ownership, etched in ink, was written right on her skin. She’d feel them every time she moved. And smile. “I’m flying to Paris on Friday,” he said, as if it were nothing. “Be waiting. Just like this.”

“Yes, Sir.” She whispered, her voice shaky with anticipation. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I fly home tomorrow. When I get there, I want to see you standing against the hall wall, face to the plaster, naked. Waiting for me. So, I can inspect my obedient little slut.”

“Yes, Sir.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a strange mix of fear and desire. He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “Perfect.”

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