Miss M milking table stockings and post ****** torment

Miss M secured him to the milking bench, rope wrapped firmly across his upper body while leather cuffs kept his hands pinned down. She took particular care with the straps around his thighs, fastening each leg individually. She had no intention of letting him squirm away from her wandering hands.

With a few quiet words and a knowing smile, she began to tease him. Her hands explored slowly, deliberately, drawing out every reaction and watching his excitement build. Only when he was fully focused on her did she slip a stocking over her hand and run the fabric across the already sensitive head of his ****.

The material was cool against overheated skin. Every touch seemed to linger a little longer than it should, every movement designed to keep him balanced between pleasure and frustration. He could feel the tension winding tighter inside him, his pulse quickening as she calmly continued her work.

What had started as pleasant soon became overwhelming in the most delicious way. She knew exactly where his limits were and seemed determined to circle them endlessly, enjoying every twitch, every gasp, every helpless reaction.

And when she finally decided he had earned release, she wasn't finished with him. Miss M rarely was.

She continued to play with him through every shudder and aftershock, smiling at his reactions, thoroughly entertained by the state she had reduced him to. Only when she was satisfied did she clean her hands, admire the evidence of her work, and remind him exactly what good manners required.

“Thank me.”