The decision to ditch my cramped, sweat-stinking PG room and move fully into her Jaipur house happened faster than I expected. One rainy evening after class, I showed up at her gate soaked through, backpack slung over one shoulder like I was running from something. She opened the door in nothing but a thin silk robe, nipples already poking through the fabric from the chill—or maybe from the text I'd sent earlier: "Be ready, slave. Master's coming home tonight." I didn't ask permission; I just stepped inside, dropped my bag in the hallway, and pinned her against the wall right there. My cold, wet hands slid under the robe, cupping her heavy tits roughly while I kissed her like I owned her mouth.
"You're not going back to that shithole PG," I growled against her lips. "This is your house, but it's my playground now. Every room, every hour—your cunt belongs to me 24/7." She moaned into my kiss, thighs parting instinctively as my fingers found her already slick folds. That night I fucked her on the living room floor, clothes half-on, her robe torn open, pounding her "greedy, dripping fuck-hole" until she squirted across the marble tiles. By morning, my clothes were in her closet, my books on her shelves, and the guest room became storage. We shared the master bedroom—her king-size bed now our torture altar. Being this close changed everything. I could wake up hard, roll over, and shove my cock into her sleeping mouth. I could come home between lectures for a quick face-fuck in the kitchen. Distance was gone; access was total. And total access made the teasing even crueler.
The daily rituals didn't stop—they evolved into something slower, more sadistic, designed to unravel her piece by piece. Mornings started gentle but vicious. I'd wake before her, slip out of bed quietly, and return with ice from the freezer. She'd stir as the first cold cube traced lazy circles around her left nipple, making it pucker into a hard, aching peak. "Shhh, desperate edge-slut," I'd whisper, pressing the melting ice lower, down her stomach, over the soft swell of her mound. When it reached her "throbbing, leaking pussy lips," she'd gasp awake, hips jerking up like she'd been shocked. I'd part her folds with two fingers, sliding the cube inside her hot channel, watching her inner walls clench around the intrusion as cold met fire.
"Feel that burn, you pathetic ice-whore?" I'd taunt, pumping the cube in and out slowly while my thumb grazed her clit—just enough pressure to make her whimper, never enough to let her tip over. Her body would arch dramatically, back bowing off the mattress, magnificent tits heaving with each ragged breath. "Master… please… your slave's cunt is freezing and burning at the same time… I need to cum so bad…" Her voice cracked, tears already gathering at the corners of her eyes. But I'd pull the cube out, toss it aside, and leave her there—legs spread, pussy glistening with melted ice and her own arousal, clit swollen and begging. "No release today. Not until I say. Now get up and make breakfast like a good denial-bitch."
She obeyed, of course—stumbling to the kitchen on shaky legs, naked except for the faint red marks from last night's ropes. I'd sit at the table, sipping coffee, watching her move. Every time she bent to grab something from a low drawer, her ass cheeks parted, showing me the slick trail running down her inner thighs. I'd call her over, make her straddle my lap while I ate, my free hand idly circling her clit with feather-light touches. "Grind on my fingers, but don't you dare cum," I'd order. She'd rock slowly, biting her lip until it bled, small desperate moans escaping as her "pulsing fuck-nub" throbbed against my knuckles. Three, four, five times I'd bring her right to the brink—her thighs trembling, breaths coming in short, frantic pants—then I'd lift her off, slap her ass hard, and send her back to the stove. "Pathetic. Look at you dripping like a faucet on heat. Clean that mess off the floor with your tongue later."
Afternoons were for deeper torment. With the house to ourselves, I'd tie her in creative ways—sometimes wrists to the headboard, ankles to the bedposts, sometimes hogtied on the living room rug so her tits pressed into the carpet and her ass stayed high. I'd use the feather again, dragging it over every sensitive inch: under her arms, along the undersides of her breasts, between her toes, then finally over her "swollen clit-whore" in maddeningly slow strokes. Her reactions grew more exaggerated each day—full-body shudders, dramatic sobs that echoed off the walls, pleas turning into incoherent babbling: "Master, I'm losing my mind… your worthless slave can't think… just let me cum, please, I'll do anything, degrade me, hurt me, just end this torture!"
By day three of total denial, she was a wreck. Dark circles under her eyes, skin flushed constantly, her magnificent body trembling even when she sat still. She'd try to focus on work emails at the dining table, but her hips would twitch involuntarily, seeking friction against the chair. I'd catch her, drag her to the bedroom, blindfold her, and resume the ice-and-feather game for hours. Her physiological strain was obvious—muscles cramping from constant tension, breath hitching like she was hyperventilating, tears streaming freely now. "I can't… I can't hold it anymore…" she'd sob. "My cunt hurts so much… it's throbbing like it's going to explode…"
That third night, the dam finally broke.
I untied her slowly, letting her collapse onto her stomach. Her ass cheeks were already red from earlier slaps; her pussy lips dark and puffy, glistening obscenely. I spread her wide, lubed my cock generously, and pressed the head against her tight back entrance. "Time to wreck this filthy anal whore," I snarled. She whimpered, but pushed back instinctively. I slammed in deep—one brutal thrust that made her scream into the pillow. Her "clenching ass-pussy" gripped me like a fist as I started pounding, hard and relentless, each slap of skin on skin filling the room.
I reached around, pressing the strongest vibrator directly to her clit on maximum. "Cum for me now, you broken denial-slut! Milk my cock with your dirty shithole—explode like the gushing fountain you are!" The orgasm hit her like lightning—her whole body seized, back arching violently, a raw, animal scream tearing from her throat. She squirted hard, hot jets soaking the sheets, her ass convulsing around me in rhythmic spasms. Wave after wave crashed through her; she blacked out for a few heartbeats, body limp and twitching. I didn't stop—kept fucking her through it, growling abuses: "Take every inch, you cum-guzzling backdoor bitch—flood the bed with your whore-juice!" When I finally came, flooding her ass with thick ropes, she was a shuddering, sweat-drenched mess.
She came back to consciousness gasping, tears streaming, body wrecked beyond words. I gathered her into my arms without a second thought—cradling her against my chest, rocking gently as I wiped her face with a cool cloth. "You were perfect, my fragile little queen," I murmured, kissing her damp forehead. I massaged her cramped thighs, her sore wrists, applying soothing balm to every welt and bruise. For the first time, the aftercare felt different—less like a ritual, more like need. Holding her trembling form, feeling her heartbeat slow against mine, I realized the constant closeness was changing me too. She wasn't just enduring; she was giving everything. And that vulnerability… it stirred something protective, almost tender.
But the night demanded one more layer of humiliation.
Under the cover of midnight darkness, I clipped a thin leather leash to her collar and led her outside to the backyard. "Crawl, you sagging-tit slut," I ordered softly, tugging the chain. She moved on all fours across the cool grass, heavy breasts swaying and brushing the ground, nipples dragging through dew. Her "reddened pussy lips" still dripped from earlier, leaving a faint trail behind her. Moonlight painted her curves silver; I walked beside her, insulting in low tones: "Look at that sloppy cunt glistening for the stars, you disgusting denial-bitch. Everyone should see what a pathetic pet you are." She whimpered with each word, but her eyes held that dark, shameful thrill—body quivering not just from cold, but from the exquisite degradation.
Back inside, I dried her gently, wrapped her in a soft blanket, and tucked her into bed beside me. As she drifted off against my chest, I stared at the ceiling, cock still half-hard from the night's excesses. Living here, fucking her constantly, pushing her to the brink of sanity—it was binding us in ways I hadn't planned. Her breakdowns were pulling me deeper, making me see her not just as a toy to ruin, but as something precious, something I might one day need to protect instead of break.
Tomorrow would bring worse teasing, more desperate edges, her physiological crumble accelerating. But tonight, with her soft breaths against my skin, I felt the first real crack in my dominance. And it terrified me as much as it excited me.