Pleasure cage

You keep me as your personal sex slave and I fucking love it. Every night I treat you to that slow, filthy strip show I saved just for you—hips rolling, fingers tracing over curves, nipples already hard before the last scrap of cloth hits the floor. You sprawl back, cock thickening, hunger plain on your face while I turn and bend, letting you drink in every inch. I spread for you, circle a slick fingertip over my tight little hole, then work it open nice and slow, pushing in until I’m panting around two knuckles deep. You rise, grab my hips, and shove your thick cock straight into that warm, clenching hole. I grunt—half pain, half bliss—as you stretch me raw. You don’t hold back: long, punishing strokes that slap skin and knock breath out of me, driving deeper every thrust. I brace against the mattress, moan like a whore, and beg you to split me harder. You oblige, pounding until sweat runs down my spine and the slap of your balls is the only sound in the room.