Mistress Bonnie demanded Obedience

The room was heavy with heat now—thick with the scent of his desire, and the unbearable stillness of obedience.

Oz knelt where she had left him, hands clasped behind his back, thighs trembling. His cock throbbed with each heartbeat, flushed and untouched now for what felt like eternity. And still, he waited.

Mistress Bonnie sat upon her chaise lounge like a queen carved from marble and velvet. She sipped the last of her wine, then set the glass aside with a casual flick of her wrist. Her gaze returned to him—not pitying, not cruel—just utterly in control.

“You ache for me,” she said simply.

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse.

She smiled. “But I don’t ache for you. Not yet.”

Her legs parted—slowly, deliberately. She reclined, letting one knee slide to the side, her fingers ghosting up her inner thigh. Oz’s breath caught. She didn’t command him to look away—so he watched. Every movement. Every breath.

“You’ll kneel there and watch while I do what you’re not allowed to even dream of.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, Mistress.”

Her fingers dipped beneath the sheer lace of her panties, and she let out a sigh—not loud, but devastating in its intimacy. Oz’s eyes widened. He had been so focused on his own longing, his own denial—but now he saw her pleasure, blooming slow and luxurious.

“This is what true power is, pet,” she purred, voice thick with satisfaction. “My touch. My control. You, kneeling hard and dripping, while I give myself what you never will.”

He whimpered before he could stop himself.

She didn’t scold him for the sound—but she heard it, and smiled.

“Touch yourself,” she said softly. “Just… the tip.”

He obeyed, fingers trembling as he brushed over the slick, sensitive head of his cock. It pulsed violently in his grip, as if one wrong breath would make him explode.

“Now stop.”

He did, choking back a moan. His hand hovered in the air, desperate, shaking.

She gasped softly, fingers working in slow, expert circles beneath the lace, her other hand moving to cup her breast. “You want to taste me, don’t you?” she asked, eyes glittering.

“Yes, Mistress. Please…”

She arched her back slightly, lips parting, breath catching. “But you won’t,” she said through a breathy moan. “Not tonight. Tonight you watch. You burn.”

Oz bit down on his own tongue to stop the sound rising in his throat. Every nerve was raw. Her body was a vision of slow, controlled pleasure, her fingers slick with need—and still, she never looked less than regal. She wasn’t performing for him. She was indulging herself. And that was what destroyed him most.

He felt his cock pulse again, dangerously close to the edge. Sweat beaded down his back. “Mistress, please—I’m… I’m so close…”

She moaned, eyes fluttering half shut, her fingers moving faster now. “You may watch. You may ache. But if you spill one drop, you start again from zero. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he choked out.

“Then prove it.”

She closed her eyes and let herself crest, her moan long and low, hips grinding into her hand. Oz froze, every muscle trembling with the effort to not give in, not even to touch himself unless ordered.

When she finally sighed and went still, legs slack and skin glowing, she turned her head lazily to look at him.

He was shaking, hard and untouched, his thighs trembling like he’d run a marathon.

“You did well,” she said, her voice sated and soft but still laced with command. “But you’ll sleep like this tonight. Unrelieved. Unfulfilled. Remember this ache.”

She stood and walked over to him, her fingers glistening. She cupped his chin and made him look up.

“You exist to serve. Not to come.”

Then, slowly—cruelly—she pressed her wet fingers to his lips.

He parted them instantly, tasting her, his eyes rolling back at the bittersweet agony of it.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “Now crawl to bed.”

He did—aching, reverent, and completely, helplessly hers.