Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322
Jordan is a man who dictates terms and crushes mergers by day, but here, under my watch, he is nothing more than a sculpture of shivering muscle waiting for my chisel. He’s currently kneeling on my small velvet rug, with his tiny cock in a cage, and his wrists bound tightly behind him. I don’t touch him. Not yet. The tip of my riding crop traces the line of his jaw, before I slide it down and tuck it under his chin, forcing him to look up at me. His eyes are glassy with the kind of devotion that borders on insanity.
“You’re trembling,” I murmur, while staring at him as if he is my prey. “Please, Miss. Stella,” he gasps. “I can’t take much more of this.” I cackle and pull the crop away, letting him tilt forward as the tension breaks, only to catch his chin again before his head can drop. The exquisite agony on his face while being brought to the brink of release, only to have it snatched away at the last second, is what my domme dreams are made of.
