He leaves

He stayed inside her for a moment, still hard, still twitching, as his cum oozed slowly from her overstretched pussy. Her body was a mess—trembling, soaked, slick with sweat and arousal and release, her breasts mashed against the cold surface of the desk, her blindfold damp, her lips parted in silence.

Then, slowly, he pulled out.

Emily whimpered at the loss—sore, stretched, dripping.

Warmth spilled down the insides of her thighs.

She flinched when he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

His voice was steady. Controlled. And terrifyingly certain.

“I still have the original footage,” he said. “You, naked in the sun, playing with yourself like a little exhibitionist slut.”

Her stomach dropped.

He wasn’t bluffing.

“And now,” he murmured, “we’ve added to the collection.”

She heard the soft scrape of something above—his footsteps shifting slightly as he stepped across the room. Then a click, followed by a faint, mechanical pop. The camera.

The one in the corner.

The one she’d noticed the second she entered.

He was taking it down.

Recording complete.

She heard it being unplugged. Removed. A case snapped shut. Then silence again—like none of it had ever been there.

“I’ll let you know when and where to show up next,” he said, closer now, voice calm as ever. “And you’ll do it. Because you want to. Because you need to.”

His fingers trailed lightly across her lower back—mocking, possessive.

“You’re owned now, Emily.”

Her name hit like a punch.

“Don’t move until five minutes after I leave.”

Then—he was gone.

The door opened. Closed.

Silence.

She stayed there—bent over the desk, blindfold still in place, his cum still dripping out of her.

And waited.