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He takes his time after that, looking far too pleased with himself as he adjusts the straps around my waist and between my ass cheeks. The rear strap nestles against my asshole, adding to the invasive pressure, and I squirm, the movement only making my denied core clench harder against the barrier.
“Stay still,” he chastises, though his tone says he enjoys that I can’t.
His fingers linger as he tightens the buckles, then one hand slips under the belt to brush my clit deliberately—once, twice—sending jolts of electricity through me. My back arches off the bed, a groan escaping my lips.
“You think this will break me?” I gasp, trying to provoke him, but my hips bucking toward his touch proves me a liar. Yes, this could absolutely break me if it goes on too long.
His chuckle comes out strained, the only sign that this bothers him too. His thumb slips under the edge of the belt and circles my entrance, barely enough to be anything, a tease that leaves his finger slick before he pulls away. “This is just the start, solnyshko.”
He leans down, his hot breath fanning over the belt, and flicks his tongue against the edge where it meets my skin, tasting my wetness. My body reignites, the indirect contact sending a sharp rush through me.
I fist my hands in his hair and tug—hard. “Fuck you, Dimitri. Either make me come or get the fuck out.”
His answer is to press the heel of his palm against the belt and grind it down over my clit. It’s maddening—pressure without precision, sensation without resolution—and I feel the familiar wave cresting only to dissolve into nothing. A string of curses spills from my mouth while he chuckles against me, his hot breath driving me insane.
I shove at him, breath catching in a broken whimper when he finally backs off. Then—click—the belt locks, the sound echoing in the room like a verdict.
He gets to his feet, belt key pinched between his fingers, then fishes a thin chain from his pocket and threads the tiny key onto it before fastening it around his neck.
The key settles against his chest, and for some reason, the sight hits me like a punch of heat. He’ll wear it all night. Its presence will be a constant reminder of me—of my locked-up pussy dripping for him. It’s hot as hell. I doubt either of us will get much sleep tonight.
My gaze drops involuntarily to where his cock is tenting his pants. He catches me looking, of course he does, and adjusts himself with a strained groan. But he doesn’t come back to touch me.
Instead, he turns and walks out.
The door shuts. The lock slides home.
And I’m left alone with the relentless ache.
The bright sunlight filtering through the curtains drags me back to consciousness, and I groan, rolling over and burying my face in the pillow. I feel like a zombie—drained, aching, and still so fucking aroused it’s like my body is burning from the inside out.
Sleep didn’t come easily. Every time I shifted, the belt pressed against my swollen clit, an unrelenting, cruel pressure. Dimitri’s hands, his mouth, the way he had me right on the edge—it all looped through my mind until I was grinding helplessly against the sheets, achieving nothing whatsoever.
Now my pussy feels raw, throbbing with denied need, my wetness coating the inside of the belt and turning even the smallest movement into slippery torment.
With a quiet curse, I push myself out of bed, legs wobbly, and shuffle to the bathroom, the belt shifting against my skin with each step I take, keeping me teetering on the edge.
Brushing my teeth is a blur, the minty foam doing nothing to clear the fog of sexual frustration from my mind. Then comes the real challenge—peeing with this thing on. I straddle the toilet, fumbling with the small opening at the bottom of the belt, angling my hips awkwardly. It takes a few tries before the stream goes where it should instead of hitting the leather, but I manage it. By the time I’m done, I’m flushed and irritated, carefully wiping around the edges where my arousal has mixed with everything else.
“Some fairytale this turned out to be,” I grumble.
Feeling gross in a way I can’t shake, I turn to the tub and run a bath.
The hot water soaks into me as I lower myself in, the steam curling around my skin. I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying not to think about anything at all.
It doesn’t work.
My hand drifts down before I’ve consciously directed it there, pressing the leather against my clit, and God, even that indirect pressure pulls a moan out of me, my hips lifting uselessly.
It’s torture. Pure and simple.
All I can think about is Dimitri. That key against his chest. Whether he’s as restless as I am. It’s so unfair that he can take his cock out and make himself come. My heartbeat kicks up as I picture him last night—he was hard as hell. Did he do it?
The thought makes me groan, and I open my eyes, realizing I need to get out of this tub. I need to interact with someone before I go crazy with want.
I move quickly after that, washing my body, cleaning my pussy and the belt carefully until all traces of my arousal are gone. Once I’m done, I step out and towel off, making sure the leather is completely dry.
I slip into a dress—something easy that he won’t have to fight through when he finally decides to take this fucking thing off me. Then I sit on my chair, back straight, hands folded in my lap, waiting.
