Home It Is

The SUV peeled out of the Target lot, tires chirping on hot asphalt. Jordan clutched his hands in his lap, the new jeans hugging his padded hips, the lavender cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Six hours until Sarah’s. One week as Joanne.

Elena’s fingers drummed the wheel. “Home it is.” She glanced sideways, eyes glittering. “You’re going to regret that choice, Joanne.”

Jordan’s stomach flipped. He had chosen to go home, not wanting to spending any more time in public as Joanne. But now, hearing Elena, he was not so sure. The seatbelt pressed the bra cups tight; every breath rubbed foam against his nipples. “I just—”

“Shh.” She turned onto their quiet street, the engine’s purr the only sound. Maple trees dappled sunlight across the windshield. She parked in the garage, killed the ignition, and popped the trunk. “Carry the bags. All of them.”

He obeyed, arms full of rustling plastic. The garage smelled of oil and cut grass. Elena led him inside, heels clicking on hardwood, straight to the bedroom. Sunlight slanted through half-closed blinds, striping the unmade bed where the sundress still lay twisted from morning.

“Lunch first. Then we are going to have some fun.”

They ate standing at the kitchen island—turkey wraps, iced tea, Elena feeding him bites from her fingers while her other hand traced the waistband of his jeans. Every swallow tasted like anticipation. By 12:50 the plates were in the sink and she was leading him upstairs.

She locked the door. “Strip to the new set. Slow.”

Jordan’s fingers shook as he peeled off the cardigan, the tank, the jeans. The padded bra and lace panties—peach, fresh from Target—clung to sweat-damp skin. His cock strained against the lace, a wet spot blooming at the tip.

1:00 P.M.

Elena circled him, slow. “On the bed. Hands above your head.”

He lay back, wrists crossing instinctively. She produced silk scarves from the nightstand—soft, lethal—and bound him to the headboard. The knots were loose enough to wriggle, tight enough to remind.

She straddled his thighs, still in her sundress, the orange one she’d tried on him in the stall. “Four hours,” she said. “I’m going to make you beg in every one.”

Her fingers traced the bra’s lace edge, then dipped lower, ghosting over the bulge in his panties. One nail scraped the wet spot. “Look at you. Leaking already.”

Jordan whimpered, hips lifting.

She leaned down, breath hot against his ear. “No coming until I say.”

The first hour was **** by feather. She dripped warming oil across his chest, thumbs circling nipples until they ached. Her tongue followed—slow, wet licks that stopped just short of suction. Jordan’s wrists jerked against the silk scarves; the headboard creaked. Every time he arched, she pulled back, blowing cool air until he sobbed.

She dripped more oil, letting it pool in the hollow of his sternum before chasing it with her tongue—one long, wet stripe that ended with a flick. His back bowed. “Count,” she ordered.

Her fingers slipped beneath the peach lace, wrapping his cock in slick heat. One stroke, two, a twist at the crown that smeared pre-cum over her knuckles. She stopped.

“One.”

He whimpered. She repeated—slow glide, pause at the head, thumb pressing the slit until another bead welled. By edge four the lace was translucent, clinging to every vein. She peeled the panties down just enough to expose him, cool air kissing overheated skin. A single fingernail traced the underside from root to tip, feather-light.

“Two.”

Oil again—drizzled directly onto his shaft, pooling at the base. She fisted him loosely, pumping once, twice, then gripping the root to stall the surge. His hips snapped uselessly. She leaned in, breath ghosting the wet head. “No coming.”

By five, his voice cracked. Tears streaked his shimmered cheeks. The peach gloss had smeared across the pillow—his thighs trembling. The clock read 1:59. She tucked him back into the soaked lace, kissed the tip through fabric. “Hour one complete.”

2:00 P.M.

Elena moved up and straddled his face. She untied one wrist, guided his hand between her legs. No panties beneath the sundress; she was drenched, lips swollen, clit peeking slick and pink. “Earn your air, Joanne.”

Jordan dove in like a starving man. Tongue flat and broad, lapping from entrance to clit in one long stroke. She rolled her hips, riding his face, fingers tangled in his hair. He circled her clit—tight, fast—then delved inside, tongue-fucking her until her thighs clamped his ears.

She came hard, grinding down, flooding his mouth. He swallowed greedily, but she pushed him away before the aftershocks faded. “Not done.”

She straddled his chest, sundress rucked to her waist, and fed him her fingers—slick with her own release. He sucked them clean, eyes locked on hers.

Then she scooted forward, pinning his arms with her knees. “Again.”

Second orgasm: slower, deeper. He traced every fold, teased the spot inside that made her gasp, until she shuddered and soaked his chin.

Third: she turned, 69 position, her mouth hovering an inch above his cock. Every time he brought her close, she exhaled hot breath over his tip—never touching. When she came the third time, she bit his inner thigh to muffle her cry.

After her fourth orgasm, she sat back on his chest, breathless, lips swollen. His face glistened; his cock wept steadily inside the lace. “Hour two done. You’re a mess.”

Standing up, she left the room, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be back in a min."

3:00 P.M.

Elena flipped him onto his stomach, scarves re-knotted. The oil bottle clicked open again. She poured a thin stream down his spine; it trickled between his shoulder blades, pooled at the small of his back, then slid into the cleft of his ass. Jordan shivered.

She kneaded the oil in, palms gliding over the padded curve of his cheeks, thumbs pressing the lace deeper between them. One finger circled his hole—slow, deliberate—never breaching, just promising.

“Imagine Alex here,” she murmured, breath hot against his ear. “His hands spreading you while you wear that orange sundress.”

Jordan moaned into the pillow. She tugged the panties to mid-thigh, exposing him fully. She reached across to the bedside glass she had brought few minutes ago. Ice cube—down his spine, melting into the oil, cold shock making him clench. She followed with her mouth: hot tongue lapping the chilled trail, teeth grazing the top of his cleft.

Another cube, pressed directly against his entrance. He bucked; she held him down. “Stay.”

She edged him with the ice—circling, pressing, retreating—until his hole fluttered, ****. Then her fingers: two, slick with oil, sliding along his perineum, pressing behind his balls, stalling every climb.

“Count again.” By edge four he was babbling—"Please, Elena, please".

Elena was relentless. She reached into the nightstand drawer, pulled out the plug—stainless steel, medium bulb, flared base. She coated it thick with lube, the scent sharp and clinical mixing with jasmine.

“Remember this?” she asked, waving the plug in front of Jordan. His eyes widened. He remembered.

“Deep breath.”

She pressed the tip against his oiled rim. Jordan tensed; she waited, thumb stroking his lower back until he exhaled. Slow push— the bulb stretched him, cold metal warming against his heat. He gasped as it seated, base snug between his cheeks.

“Good girl.” She twisted it gently, a quarter turn that lit nerves like fireworks. His cock jerked against the sheets, untouched.

She flipped him over carefully—the plug shifted with the motion, pressing deeper. Ice cube now on his nipples, mouth following to suck the melt away. His cock lay rigid against his stomach, untouched for the last fifteen minutes, twitching with every heartbeat.

Every clench around the plug sent a throb straight to the head.

She edged him again—hand loose around his shaft, slow pumps that ended with her thumb pressing the base of the plug through his body. “Feel that? It’s staying in until tonight.”

By edge eight he was sobbing, hips grinding air, the plug a constant, unyielding pressure. Pre-cum pooled on his abs in sticky strands.

3:59. She blew across the wet head, gave the plug one last nudge. “Hour three. Still full—and mostly dry.”

4:00 P.M.

Elena turned him around, and retied both wrists, spread his legs wide with ankle cuffs hooked to the bedposts. She was not wearing anything now—Jordan's eyes lit up.

Vibrator—slim, powerful—buzzed to life. She trailed it over his nipples, down his ribs, along the crease of his thigh. When it grazed his balls he jerked so hard the cuffs rattled. She pressed it lightly against the lace covering his cock—low buzz, just enough to throb.

“Count the pulses.”

One… two… three… at ten she pulled away. Repeated until his voice cracked at twenty.

Then the real torment: she slid the vibe inside the panties, nestling it against the head, and taped it in place. Remote in hand—she left the room, door ajar.

Buzz—stop. Buzz—stop. Random patterns, never enough to crest. From the hallway bathroom her voice floated through the cracked door, casual as conversation. “Feel that, Joanne? Every pulse is me deciding if you get closer.”

He writhed, hips grinding air, the plug shifting with each spasm. “Elena—please—”

“Shh. I’m peeing. Don’t interrupt.” A low, teasing buzz ramped up, then cut. “Count out loud.”

“One… two…” His voice cracked on seven.

The toilet flushed. Water ran. She hummed, unhurried. Another surge—longer, crueler—vibrating against the plug’s pressure. He sobbed into the pillow.

At 4:40 she sauntered back in, remote dangling. Watching his tear-streaked face, she cranked it to high for five merciless seconds; he screamed, hips snapping. She killed it, peeled the tape, removed the vibe. His cock was purple, slick, a steady drip of pre-cum pooling on his abs. She leaned down, licked a single stripe from root to tip—once—then blew cool air.

She freed the cuffs, the scarves. The plug shifted as he sat up; he gasped. Elena removed her bra, lay back, and pulled him on top.

“Inside me. But you don’t move.”

He slid in—tight, wet heat—and froze. She clenched around him, slow pulses that milked without rhythm. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her collarbone. Her fingers found the plug’s base, pressing gently.

“Hold it in, now” she whispered. She flexed again, the plug nudging deeper from the inside. His arms shook.

“Now,” she growled. “You get to choose.”

1. “Come inside me, but then you have to lick every drop clean now.”
2. “Pull out now, finish yourself in the shower—but no coming for the week.”
3. “Be a good girl and hold off—wear a pad inside the panties. We go to dinner—you aching, ****. You get a release once we are back, no consequences.”