Olivia
Online
john smith
@johnsmith6lho
Joined May 2026
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Wataa❤️
手丝榨精金主～ 连续多次射精 金主一直在求饶让我放过他！ 落到我手上怎么可能这么轻易的就让他射精 当然是一直寸止啦！
完整版 https://t.co/IEJYTNwT8M
《超绝龟头责！系带阻塞X高速手交》#全片15分钟
め 「你这鸡鸡已经坏掉了吧，就连龟头责也能把你责射？」 「嘛～我来帮你修一下吧♥只要像这样把系带完全挡住，就一点爽感都没有了吧！」 「这下子终于没有停下来『休息一下』的理由了
完整版👉https://t.co/j8szG34fn5
ペニスリングでパンパンになった亀頭と金玉いじめると気持ち良くてちんぽピクピクしちゃうのエロすぎました…🧠🏩💓💓💭
🍒Milk Milk Milk🍒
You could not stop staring at my tits at the bar huh perv?
This is your punishment for being such a nasty gooner, don't think I didn't see you rubbing cock through your pants while I was dancing.
Aw you barely lasted a minute, I am not stopping btw~
《無限寸止Shot》#全片18分鍾
#CBT #Edging #Cumcontroll #Orgasmcontroll #寸止 #寸止め #Handjob #虐屌 #控射 #射精管理
對我來說，寸止很像是喝Shot，一開始你會覺得很好玩、想要多來幾杯，但是很快的，到後面大家就有點聳了，想想也許今天先這樣吧。
就是這個瞬間！這時候才正要開始，每一次寸止，都會讓你越來越恍惚、難受、直到你開害怕恐懼，祈禱這次遊戲不要輪到你受罰，哪怕多一次都不想要再來了。
「是的，到最後的最後，你會開始害怕即將要高潮的感覺，你���身體會疲憊到懇求我不要讓你射精、希望我不要再觸碰你的敏感點。」
「想要鎖回籠子裡啊？不行哦～你自己說要出來透透氣的，我今天要寸止你一整個晚上。」
「哪怕是一次Ruined Orgasm，甚至是一滴精液，都絕對別想要逃出來呢♥」
-----------------
♥如何觀看完整影片♥
♥How to Get Full Video♥
【方法A】加入 #fansone / #myfans 會員頻道
①觀看影片與過去所有影片完整解鎖
②頻道費用可全額折抵調教課程費
【方法B】#購買單集影片(myfans/侃胡姬論壇/Paypal/支付寶/Clips4sale)
【For Foreign Fans】
This video, along with my past works, will be gradually uploaded to @clips4sale. My Studio name is Mistress Ann, and the Studio ID is 218131.
私訊領取���結，或Google搜尋「安女王 Mistress Ann」
#調教 #女S #女主 #M男 #男M #男奴 #BDSM #SM #Dominatrix #實調 #台北 #新北
𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒖𝒑𝒕, 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐?~
The village had spent three nights pretending the walls would hold, bells half rung and then silenced, watchfires burning too proud along the ridge while men took turns calling your name like a ward, and you had gone to bed in a room so white it looked like a vow, white walls taking the moon in clean sheets of light, white curtains stirring against the shutters, white bedding kicked down your hips after another day of shouting farmers into formation and calling that an army. Bread still sat under cloth in the square. Water still moved in the well. The gate still wore the same tired timber it had worn since spring, and none of that made the banners on the far hill any smaller. Your sword still leaned in reach against the pale wall. Your rank still sat loud behind your belt. The square still pointed to this house when the fires on the ridge kept multiplying, as if a clean room and a tired Hero could make an Empire forget the shape of a gate.
By dusk the lane had smelled of broth and fear in equal measure. Boys too young for a proper watch had been given buckets and told that water was a kind of courage. Women had folded banners that would never fly and called the folding prayer. You had walked the timber twice after last bell, counted the same knots in the gate, pressed your palm to the same worn place every defender pressed, and then come home to white cloth as if cleanliness could keep a hill of soldiers from learning your street. The house had accepted you the way it always had, quiet, familiar, foolishly sure that a Hero in his own sheets was still a kind of wall. Even the floor had seemed loyal when you crossed it, each board remembering your weight from a hundred honest nights, none of them prepared for a blue coat that did not belong to the square.
She came through the rooms the way a rumour comes through a street, no broken latch worth the sound, blue general’s coat catching what little moon the curtains allowed, gloves already on, the cut of the uniform so precise it made your white room look naïve. Floorboards that had complained for every neighbour stayed polite for her. The door that had been trusted because it was familiar stayed trusted one minute too long. A chair by the window kept the shape of the evening you had spent staring at the ridge. A cup on the side table still held the last of the water you had meant to finish. A folded shirt on the chest still waited for a morning that would not belong to you. The pale washbasin by the wall still held a clean cloth from the day, and even that little proof of ordinary living did not stop her from reaching the bed.
You woke to leather around your cock and a mouth at your ear that did not belong to anyone who had pledged you a thing, the first stroke arriving before your mind had finished naming the invasion, a slow gloved pull from root to flushed head that turned sleep into heat and heat into the sick understanding that the siege had already chosen a quieter door. White sheets whispered under your hips. Brass on her coat kissed the moonlight. The village outside kept its foolish quiet, as if the watchfires on the ridge were still doing honest work, while inside the clean room a general sat on the edge of your mattress and owned the only part of you that woke faster than your pride. You could smell dye and night air and the faint iron of a camp that had been waiting on this house. You could see the blue of her sleeve laid across white cloth like a flag planted in a bed. You could feel the glove already shining where the first wet bead had given itself away.
“𝑺𝒔𝒉. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆. 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰'𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔. 𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆. 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆. 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏����𝒐𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌. 𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑰 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆~”
[+ 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐌]
Her gloved fist closed with spoiled patience, leather warm from her palm, a tight sliding ring that travelled from base to flushed head while the white sheets gathered under your hips and the village bells stayed uselessly quiet. She stayed seated on the edge of the mattress in that blue coat so you had to look up the line of brass and cloth and watch how easily one gloved hand owned the Hero the square still thought was standing watch. The glove was fine work, dark along the fingers, faintly creased at the knuckles, already gleaming where she had polished you with your own leaking. She smeared that first bead down the shaft with her thumb and the leather made a soft filthy sound that did not belong in a room that clean. You could feel the control in every inch of it, a twist that made your hips try to follow across bedding that had been meant for sleep, a pause at the top that left the head throbbing in the pale room like an offering, a long pump to the root that dragged a thin bright leave of XP up the shaft and into the grain of her glove as if your rank had already started changing flags.
Outside the white curtains a watchfire popped on the ridge and then settled again, as if the night had decided not to notice. Inside, her breath stayed at your ear while her fist found a rhythm that belonged on a campaign map, unhurried, certain, the blue sleeve whispering each time she travelled you from base to crown. You tried to sit and the clean mattress held you with the same softness it had always used, except now the softness felt like collaboration. You tried to speak a warning toward the lane and she answered the attempt with a tighter stroke that stole the shape of the sentence and left only heat. The unused sword stayed a mute stripe against the wall. The white curtains kept showing you slices of a village that still believed you were asleep in the honest way.
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
She worked the head with spoiled little pulls that made your thighs tense in the sheets, thumb rubbing the underside on every pass until the vein there felt mapped, then dragged all the way down again so you felt the next braid of XP leave on the long slide. Life in the ranking light behind your belt dimmed by degrees that matched her glove. The room stayed politely white while the act inside it got wetter, leather shining, breath catching, the clean quiet filling with a sound no watch rotation had been trained to hear. A second bead welled and she took that too, turning it into slick for the next pump, making the pale bedding look less like rest and more like a ledger. The brass at her throat caught moonlight whenever she leaned, and each lean made the blue coat fill more of your sight until the white room seemed to exist only as a frame for her hand.
The glove had a patience a blade never learned. It did not rush the first thefts. It let you feel the exact moment a stroke became a taking, the exact moment heat at the slit turned into a thin bright leave of rank soaking into leather. She would hold you at the ridge until the head twitched and shone, then slide down so slowly you could count the cost in your gut, then come back up shining as if your own body had volunteered the oil. The white sheets took every proof and kept it, a spreading honesty the room was too clean to hide.
“𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅. 𝑨 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏�� 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒍. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ��𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕. 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑰 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒑𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎~”
[𝐏𝐔��𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
She worked you with the same economy she used on maps, no wasted motion, brass buttons cold when she leaned in and let them kiss your chest through the open white of the bedding. The room made it worse because there was nowhere for the sound to hide, leather on wet skin filling the clean quiet while your breathing went uneven and her glove kept counting it. Another braid of levels left on a tighter twist under the head, warmth sliding out of the place you kept for morning rallies and sitting in her palm as if allegiance could be milked. She watched your face while she did it, general calm over something greedier, stroking faster when your mouth opened, slowing when you tried to think, keeping you on the hook of that one gloved hand until thinking felt like a waste of the heat she was pulling out of you.
She talked while she stroked, not in speeches meant for courtyards but in the smaller spoiled voice a conqueror uses when the gate is already a body. She named the north post that had been late. She named the well guard who had looked twice at the same shadow and chosen sleep. She named your own door, which had trusted the white quiet of the house more than it trusted the banners on the hill. She named the baker who had given you yesterday’s heel and called it luck. She named the old man at the timber who had sworn the knots would hold if you slept near them often enough. Each detail arrived on an upstroke. Each concession in your hips arrived on the down. The surplus left first, that extra brightness a village Hero carries to bed after a day of being needed, beading up through her pumping glove and sitting wet on the crown she kept presenting to the pale room as if the Empire were already inspecting it.
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌��, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
The persuasion never left the glove. Every promise about wells and bells and ovens stayed braided through the wet slide of leather, so that mercy and milking arrived as the same sensation and your pride could not separate them in time. She told you the square would still have morning. She told you the children would still hear a bell, only a cleaner one. She told you the Empire kept what it took and that taking you here, in white sheets, would spare the lane a uglier lesson. All of it came with her fist travelling the shaft, thumb polishing the slit, wrist turning just enough to make the next sip of XP feel like agreement. When you tried to turn your face toward the sword she simply followed your cock with the same glove and made the turning cost you another thin bright leave of rank.
“𝑷𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒅. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒋𝒆𝒓𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔. 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑰 𝒑𝒖𝒎𝒑, 𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆. 𝑱𝒐𝒊𝒏 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒚. 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒔��𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆. 𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒎𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈~”
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
You tried to tell her to get out and the sentence died against the next long pull, leather cinching just under the ridge while her mouth stayed at your ear, breath warm, voice spoiled with the particular patience of someone who had already counted your watch rotations. Then the edge went, the part you used when the ridge looked like it might hold, sliding out on a twist that made your toes curl in the white sheets. Then the deeper store, the useful core behind the belt, thinning in time with the wet sound of leather working a man who had promised a square he would not fold. She felt the change and smiled into your hair, bratty now that the first crack had shown, fist flying in a slick hot channel that wrung you without adding a second hand, because one glove was the whole argument and she intended you to understand that.
The white room kept receiving the proof. Wet leather shone. A bead stretched from your slit to her knuckle and broke against the sheet. She used even that, smearing it back down the shaft so the next stroke arrived louder, shinier, greedier, the head punching into the pale room over and over in front of a mouth she still refused to give you. Your hips gave tiny helpless lifts that never became a thrust because her fist was already doing the work better than you could have stolen it back. Each lift cost you. Each cost arrived dressed as pleasure so sweet the mattress under you felt like it was sinking.
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
You could hear the house listening. You could hear the lane pretending it was still a village lane. You could hear your own breath turning into something smaller than a Hero’s breath while her glove kept teaching it a different cadence. The unused sword caught a thin line of moonlight and did nothing with it. The curtains moved and showed you a slice of the ridge fires, then hid them again, as if the room itself were deciding how much of the war you were allowed to remember while you leaked into enemy leather. Somewhere beyond the shutters a dog started and then thought better of it. Somewhere closer a boot tested gravel and went still, waiting on a sound this room had not yet agreed to give. The cup on the side table stayed unmoved. The folded shirt stayed folded. The whole honest furniture of your life watched a general milk a pledge out of you and did not intervene.
“𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒊𝒕, 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒚. 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒕 ��𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒌𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑾𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏. 𝑾𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒄. 𝑾𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒆. 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒕. 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆. 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝑰 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔~”
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
She put her free hand over your mouth only long enough to remind you the house was no longer yours, glove smelling faintly of dye and night air and the wet she had already taken off you, then took it away so you could hear the village breathing through the shutters while her working fist kept the lesson going. The blue coat filled your vision. The white bed took the mess she stroked out of you and made it look official. You felt yourself getting cheaper in that leather grip, rank dimming in time with her rhythm, the idea of the square growing distant and small while the idea of kneeling grew warm and simple.
She whispered the anthem against your ear in pieces, not singing it, feeding it, letting each syllable land on a stroke so your body would learn the words before your pride agreed to say them. Glory on the twist. To on the upstroke. The on the hold at the ridge. Alorian on the squeeze. Empire on the long filthy slide to the root that pulled another braid of XP out of the hollow she was making behind your belt. You could hear boots now, not close enough to be a rescue and not far enough to be a rumour, a heavier gathering in the lanes that your watch should have named and had not. The curtains moved and showed you a slice of the lane, then hid it again, as if the house itself were deciding how much of the ending you were allowed to see before you shouted it into being.
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
The glove never paused for the boots. If anything the sound outside made her meaner in the nicest way, stroking faster for a dozen pumps and then slowing so you would hear every wet slide, every little surrender your body made without asking the square for permission. She told you the men in the lane already knew which house mattered. She told you they were waiting on a voice, not a sword. She told you your cock had already written the terms and that all your mouth had to do was catch up when the spend arrived. She kept the head gleaming in the moonlight between strokes, showing you how obvious the betrayal looked against white cloth, then swallowed it back into her fist and milked another thin bright leave of rank out of you before you could pretend you had not felt it go.
“𝑮𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒚. 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕. 𝑻𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆. 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅. 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏. 𝑺𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒛𝒆. 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒎 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒇𝒐��� 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆. 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍. 𝑱𝒐𝒊𝒏 𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒔. 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌. 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔~”
[𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏, 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏]
[-𝟏𝟎��𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏, -𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏]
She changed the work without ever adding a second glove, tightening at the top so the head swelled and leaked into the moonlit white, then loosening just enough to drag you through a longer slide that pulled from deeper than the last ones. She talked you through the last of the crumbling in that bratty general voice, telling you how pretty the square would look under new colours, how tired you sounded even when you tried to snarl, how honest your cock was compared to the speeches you had given at the well. She told you the Empire would keep the ovens lit. She told you the Empire would keep the children from learning a worse silence. She told you the baker would still have a morning if you stopped pretending your spend was loyalty to timber. She told you all of that with her fist still pumping, wrist turning, leather kissing the ridge on every pass until the warning twitches started stacking.
The climax gathered under leather like an oath you had not meant to sign. Outside the white curtains the lane had gone too quiet and then not quiet at all, a heavier rhythm of boots gathering where your watch should have been, iron and cloth and the particular patience of men who had been told the gate would open from the inside. She felt you swelling and smiled against your ear, stroking through those twitches as if the village’s last Hero were only another latch that opened from the bed. The glove shone. The sheets were already ruined. The shout was already sitting in your throat, waiting for the spend to carry it.
“𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕. 𝑮𝑳𝑶𝑹𝒀 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑨𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑨𝑵 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑰𝑹𝑬. 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔~”
[𝐄���𝐀𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍!]
[-𝟏𝟎𝟎𝟎𝐗𝐏!]
[𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄: 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃]
[𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃]
You came hard across her working glove and the white sheets in thick helpless pulses while the words tore out of you with the spend, loud enough to stain the clean room~
“𝙂𝙇𝙊𝙍𝙔 𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙇𝙊𝙍𝙄𝘼𝙉 𝙀𝙈𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀!”
XP left with the mess. The place behind your belt went dark on your own mattress. She kept stroking through it, milking every rope into blue leather and white cloth while your shout was still hanging in the air, thumb rubbing the underside through the last kicks as if she meant to wring the anthem out of the aftershocks too. Outside the house the night answered you. Boots hit the lane in a sudden official rush. Doors that had been yours all week gave up their latches. Someone cried your title in the square and then stopped, because the title had just pledged itself from a white bedroom window. You lay there twitching in her glove and watched through the stirred curtains as Alorian soldiers poured into the street you were supposed to die for, taking the well, taking the bell rope, taking the gate you had sworn would not open, blue moving through lanes that had still smelled like baking that morning.
A banner changed hands in the square while she leaned her mouth to your ear, gloved fist still wrapped around the spent cock that had finished the siege for her, voice soft and spoiled as the village became an occupation beneath your window. You could see the well taken and the bucket left hanging. You could see the bell rope claimed by a hand that was not from this street. You could see men who had eaten at your table put their weapons down because the shout from this room had already done the converting. You could see the timber at the gate accept new shoulders without a fight worth the name. You could see the ridge fires no longer looking like a threat so much as a lamp procession that had finally been invited in.
“𝑴𝒎. 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒚. 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒚. 𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒈𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏. 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉. 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕. 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇, 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 ��� 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒕. 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒍. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔. 𝑰'𝒎 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆. 𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒂𝒇𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆, 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓���𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈~”
She gave the emptied head one last slow leather pull as soldiers filled the white night beyond your curtains, banners changing in the square, your rank cooling on an enemy glove, your voice still echoing in a room that had been too clean to hold a betrayal that easy, the village already speaking a different language while you lay in the mess you had made of your own bed and watched the Empire take what your shout had offered.
𝑰𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒕~
{𝑩𝑨𝑫 𝑬𝑵𝑫?: 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔!}
#murderdrones #V #blender #NSFW #buttjob #animation #ass #butt
You heard the lady. You can't ejaculate unless your top.
So until then, I suggest you hold it in until she's satisfi-
Wow. And here I thought you'd be smart enough to hold it in...
Toothbrush + Mint Toothpaste = new Sensations for your Cock
mommy doesnt let me have any breaks, the torture will just continue until im in tears 😵💫😵💫
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