The symphony of sensual overload became a deafening roar. Natasha's consciousness, a fragile ship caught in a hurricane of bliss, was torn asunder.
The vibrating dildo in her pussy, the humming plug in her ass, the pulsing clamps on her nipples, and the deep, aching pull of her magically descending womb—it was no longer a combination of separate sensations.
It had merged into a single, all-consuming entity of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was a god of ecstasy, and she was its sacrificial altar, its willing, screaming victim.
Her body was no longer her own. It was an instrument, played with brutal, masterful skill by Jax. Her back arched into an impossible curve, her muscles straining against the silken bonds not in escape, but in a desperate attempt to contain the pleasure that was threatening to tear her apart.
