Extended Epilogue – Iris
The bedroom was already set for the mood as we set out to try something new. Something I’d always fantasized about.
Red light washed the walls in a low, warm glow. Candles burned on the dresser and the windowsill—dark, sweet, a little smoky.
Flower petals covered the black sheets. A pair of handcuffs sat on the side table next to a short leather whip. The air felt thick and intentional.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed in black boxer briefs. The light caught every hard line of him: broad chest, cut abs, the heavy muscle in his shoulders and arms.
He looked like he’d been waiting exactly for this, eyes locked on me with that steady hunger that always made my pulse jump.
Dressed in a black thong and nothing else, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled across the carpet toward him, slow, hips swaying. His gaze tracked every inch.
When I reached his knees, I looked up.
“Are you ready for me?” My voice came out low. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About getting you in my mouth. About letting you use me however you want.”
“You have, haven’t you?” he teased, his husky voice fanning the flames of my hunger.
I hooked my fingers in his waistband. He lifted his hips so I could drag the briefs down. His cock sprang free, already thick and hard. Just as I liked it.
I wrapped my hand around the base and stroked him once, root to tip, slow.
Then I leaned in and took him into my mouth, and a soft gasp tore from his throat.
I kept it unhurried, licking a long stripe up the underside, before closing my lips around the head.
Looking up at him over my lashes, I sank down until he rested against the back of my tongue. I pulled off with a wet sound and did it again, deeper, letting saliva coat him.
The taste of him, the heat, the way his breath stuttered—I loved all of it.
I held his gaze as I worked him, watching his face. The tight jaw. The dark, heavy eyes. The slight flex of his stomach every time I hollowed my cheeks and sucked hard on the head.
I wanted to keep that look.
He reached down, fingers in my hair, the tips gently massaging my scalp as if to say, “well done.”
I bobbed my head, tucking stray strands to the back of my ear while stroking and sucking his length. He pressed against the back of my head, groaning in ecstasy.
“Cuff me,” I said against his cock. “Behind my back. I want my hands out of the way so you can fuck my mouth properly.”
He reached for the handcuffs. I turned and offered my wrists. Metal clicked shut, cool and final. I tested them once—secure—then turned back and took him into my mouth again.
This time, he guided me. One hand settled in my hair again, not forcing, just holding. He pushed deeper, slow and controlled, until the head pressed into my throat.
I breathed through my nose and took it, my eyes watering. The wet sound of him sliding in and out filled the quiet room. He kept the pace gentle but deep, using my mouth the way I’d asked.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. Take it.”
I moaned around him. The vibration made his hips twitch.
After a while, he pulled free. A thin string of saliva still connected my lower lip to the head of his cock. I was breathing hard, lips swollen, wrists locked behind me.
He stood, then helped me onto the bed on all fours. Petals shifted under my knees, and I felt him move behind me.
The first stroke of the whip was light—more sound than sting—across the curve of my ass. I moaned. The second landed firmer.
“Ugh,” I winced, reveling in the sweet pain coursing through me. “Whip me, Daddy. I’ve been a naughty little slut. Punish me.”
The third cracked sharp and bloomed into heat. I pushed back into it, hands still cuffed, shoulders straining.
The next rounds that followed were more pleasure than pain, and my body flinched on each strike.
He set the whip aside and leaned in. His breath first, then his tongue. He licked a slow stripe over my ass and pressed deeper, eating me with the kind of fervency that made my legs tremble.
“Oh, my God.” My eyes rolled back as my cuffed wrists flicked in response to the icy mint of his tongue in my backdoor.
At the same time, two fingers slid into my pussy, curling, stroking. The double sensation ripped a cry out of me.
My thighs shook. I dropped my forehead to the sheets and moaned into the mattress while he worked me open with tongue and fingers, steady and thorough.
“Ilya—fuck—”
He didn’t stop until I was dripping and trembling, right on the edge. Then he pulled away and left me aching.
I heard him shift. A moment later, he uncuffed my hands and was on his back against the pillows.
I rolled my wrists, basking in the sweet ache in my flesh before cuffing his hands to the headboard.
The sight of him like that—powerful body stretched out and bound, cock hard and wet against his stomach—twisted something low and hungry in my belly.
“Your turn,” he said, voice rough.
I climbed onto the bed and straddled him, my knees sinking into the mattress. I leaned in, kissing his lips and caressing his broad chest.
With my panties already shifted, I sank down onto him in one slow, continuous push.
The stretch forced a long moan from both of us. I stayed still for a second, adjusting, feeling him throb inside me. Then I started to move.
I rode him slow at first, rolling my hips, lifting almost all the way off before sliding back down.
The red light painted everything in heat. Petals stuck to my knees and his thighs. Every downward stroke dragged a low sound out of him.
I watched his face the whole time—the strain in his jaw, the way his arms flexed against the restraints, the helpless hunger in his eyes because he couldn’t touch me.
“You look so good like this,” I whispered. “Tied up. Mine to use. Does it drive you crazy that you can’t put your hands on me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leaned forward, fucking myself on him harder and faster. The wet slap of my body meeting his filled the room. I reached back and unhooked my bra so my breasts swayed with every movement.
I placed my palms flat on his chest, my face twisted in pleasure while I rode that cock. My hips rolled back and forth, side to side, and up and down as I chased the feeling sprinting through me.
“Fuck, I love you so fuckin’ much,” I confessed between moans. “It fills me up so perfectly.”
His legs trembled beneath me, and his groans grew deeper by the second. “Oh, Iris, you ride me so well.” He locked eyes with me, his expression dark with desire. “I love it when you’re in control.”
I rode faster, moaning loudly as I closed my fingers around his neck. My hair spilled over my face, and I bent over to reclaim his lips, swallowing every sound he made.
“This cock belongs to me and no one else,” I growled, holding his gaze.
“It’s yours forever, my love.”
“Say it again.”
He repeated the same thing.
“Again.” I quickened my pace, toes curling as I felt another orgasm building already, tight and close.
“My cock belongs to you, my love,” he said, his voice dripping with pleasure. “It’s yours forever.”
“Fuck, I’m going to come on your cock,” I told him. “And you’re going to watch. You’re not allowed to come until I say.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he groaned, hips trying to thrust up to meet me.
I kept the rhythm I wanted, using him, taking what I needed. When the pleasure finally broke, it tore through me hard, and I cried out, clenching around him in waves, riding it out while he watched with dark, desperate eyes.
I didn’t stop moving. I slowed just enough to stay on the edge of oversensitive, then started building again.
Sweat slicked our skin. The scent of sex and candle smoke hung heavy. I leaned down and bit the side of his neck, then soothed it with my tongue.
“Please,” he rasped.
“Not yet.”
I kept him there, tortured and hard and aching inside me, until I came a second time—shaking, moaning his name, dripping down his cock. Only then did I give him what he needed.
“Come,” I said, watching the way his face was twisted in ecstasy. “Fill me up. Now.”
He bucked his hip, shooting upward with a sound so guttural it vibrated in his throat.
The orgasm ripped through him with a broken groan. I felt every pulse, every hot spurt deep inside me, while he strained against the cuffs and spilled everything he had.
“That’s it. Gimme all of you.” My voice was a low growl, desperate and needy.
I stayed seated on him through it, rolling my hips in small, greedy circles, milking him until he had nothing left.
His legs shook beneath me, and for a long moment, the only sound was our breathing.
Eventually, I lifted off him carefully and freed his hands, the cuffs falling to the bed. The second he was free, he pulled me down against his chest and held me there, both of us sticky and spent and still trembling.
I rested my head over his heart and listened to it slow. His fingers traced idle patterns along my spine. Neither of us spoke for a while. The red light kept glowing. The candles burned lower. Crushed petals stuck to our skin and the sheets.
After a few minutes, I shifted and reached for the whip again. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop me. I trailed the soft leather across his chest, down the center of his abs, then lower.
He was already half-hard again. I wrapped my hand around him and stroked slowly until he thickened fully in my grip.
“Again?” he asked, voice still rough.
“Again.”
I guided him back inside me, this time facing away, and rode him reverse. I braced my hands on his thighs and moved with more force, taking him deep on every downward stroke.
He sat up behind me, one arm banding around my waist, the other hand finding my breast and squeezing. His mouth opened against the side of my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
“You’re still so wet,” he muttered against my skin. “Dripping all over me.”
“Because you keep fucking me like you mean it.”
He laughed once, low, and thrust up to meet me. The new angle hit something sharper.
I dropped my head back onto his shoulder and let him take on more of the work as his hips snapped up while I ground down to meet every stroke.
The new angle hit deeper. I reached up, swiped two fingers through the saliva at the corner of my mouth, and brought them straight down between my legs.
I started rubbing my clit in slow circles at first, matching the rhythm of his thrusts from underneath.
The dual sensation made my thighs tighten. I pressed harder, faster, fingers slipping over the swollen bud while he kept driving up into me.
“Oh my fuckin’ God!” I cried out, face contorted.
My moans turned louder, broken. My breasts bounced with every upward snap of his hips. The wet sound of his cock fucking into me mixed with the soft, slick noise of my fingers working my clit.
“Fuck—don’t stop,” I gasped.
He didn’t.
He grabbed my hips and thrust harder from below, using the leverage to bury himself deep on every stroke while I rubbed myself faster. Pleasure coiled tight and low.
My head stayed thrown back against his shoulder, mouth open, every breath a moan.
Then he moved.
He rolled us in one smooth motion so I landed on my back. Petals stuck to my skin. He pushed my thighs wide apart and dropped his mouth between them without warning.
The first long lick dragged a cry out of me. He licked through my folds, sucked my clit between his lips, and worked it with his tongue in tight, relentless circles.
It felt so good I couldn’t stay still—hips lifting, thighs trembling, fingers twisting hard in the sheets. Every stroke of his tongue sent sharp sparks up my spine.
I tugged at the fabric, moaning his name, the pleasure so concentrated it bordered on too much.
He didn’t let up until I was shaking and dripping against his mouth.
Then he climbed up my body, settled between my spread legs, and pushed back inside me in one deep thrust.
I wrapped my arms around him and held on. He fucked me in long, hard strokes, missionary, the full weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
I kept my legs locked around his waist, taking every thrust, nails digging into his back.
“Oh, Ilya, you fuck me so well.”
His rhythm grew rougher, less controlled. He pulled out at the last second, stroked himself twice, and came across my stomach in thick, hot pulses.
I felt every spurt land on my skin while he groaned above me, free hand braced beside my head, body still trembling through the last of it.
Eventually, we collapsed sideways onto the petals and the ruined sheets. I faced him. He brushed damp hair from my forehead and left his hand cupping the side of my neck.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked, breath heavy.
“I’m more than satisfied.” I beamed, my chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
He kissed me—slow, thorough, no urgency left in it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I love you so much, Ilya Tarasov,” I said, staring into his eyes.
“I love you more, Iris.” His lips curled into a faint smile.
*****
THE END