Stripped, Torn, and Tasted: A Night Under His Control
I met him at the club—dark room, loud bass, and just the right amount of eye contact to make my head spin. We didn’t need to talk much; the way his hand brushed mine said everything. One drink turned into two, and before I knew it, we were tangled in each other, slipping out into the night like a secret too good to share.
It was raw and unapologetic. I was wearing mesh nylon stockings, hugging my legs tightly, until he slid them off with deliberate precision. His thick fingers brushed my lips as he tore a hole in the fabric, then pulled it over my head. The makeshift balaclava blinded me, but heightened every other sense. The taste of his co*k was overwhelming, intimate, and commanding. By the time I adjusted the fabric to catch a glimpse, it was too late—his release already marked my lips, soft and trembling, a canvas for the moment I’d never forget.
Afterward, the room was quiet, but my heart was still racing. The stockings lay crumpled on the floor, like a trophy from a game only we knew how to play. He smiled, his fingers trailing along my cheek, pulling me closer for one last kiss. It was messy, thrilling, and unforgettable—exactly what I came for.
