The real Zoe Nightshade part 4
In the living room, Zon sank onto the Canadian flag-patterned couch, her fingers tracing the fabric's stitching absentmindedly. She flicked on the Hello Kitty television, its pink glow casting soft shadows across the opal walls. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she replayed Wiŋyanpata’s choked gasps and desperate moans in her mind—the symphony of his submission echoing louder than any program. He was hers, completely and utterly. Few men surrendered so willingly, let alone with such raw, unguarded passion. Most clung to fragile egos, terrified of a woman’s command. Worse still were those hypocrites who paid for domination yet demanded control elsewhere. But Wiŋyanpata? He’d embraced it, body and soul.
Her amber eyes drifted to the ceiling fan above, its blades slicing lazy circles through the air. Perfect. She imagined him suspended there, wrists bound to its sturdy frame, body swaying like ripe fruit, or perhaps from the basement pipes, which were much sturdier, as she circled him. The fantasy crystallized: she’d tease him with feather-light tickles along his ribs, then bite the curve of his shoulder hard enough to bruise. Her nails would rake down his back, reopening the faint welts beneath his buttermilk-scented skin. Each sharp spank would echo in the cavernous space, his breath hitching as she alternated cruelty and tenderness. He’d beg, she decided. Not for mercy, but for more.
The hanging position would also be perfect for her martinet. Unlike when she had him tied to the wood table, all of his body would be exposed, and she be able to lash every single spot with her martinet.
She’d start with his feet—the soles were sensitive, and he’d squirm deliciously—then work up his calves and thighs. His ass would be the main course, followed by his chest and sensitive nipples, then she lashes shoulders and the nape of his neck, the ladder of which would sting terribly. Zon would save his genitals for last. No mercy this time. His cock and balls would take the full force of her strikes until they were swollen and throbbing, a canvas of crimson welts. She’d watch his face contort, tears mingling with sweat, as he endured it all without complaint. *He’ll take whatever I have to give him, whatever punishment I dish out, until I decide to stop.*
Exactly sixty minutes later, Zon rose from the couch and padded silently back to her bedroom. The door clicked open to reveal Wiŋyanpata still sprawled on the silver-framed bed, his breathing deep and even. She approached with predatory grace, her fingers brushing his shoulder before she gently rolled him onto his back. A plush pillow slid beneath his hips, lifting his bruised flesh into prominence. Her blonde ponytail, freed from its bun, became her weapon—she trailed the silken strands teasingly over his scrotum, then along the length of his flaccid cock. A low moan escaped his lips as he stirred, hips arching instinctively toward the sensation.
"Big boy’s waking up," she murmured, her voice honeyed steel. When his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and lingering pain, she leaned close.
"Touch me," she warned, amber gaze locking onto his, "and this ends. Understood?"
He nodded frantically and said, “Yes ma’am!”
Zon’s lips curved into a predatory smile. Without hesitation, she engulfed his entire length in her mouth, her blonde ponytail brushing against his thighs as she bowed her head. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive head before plunging down again, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp. She set a furious rhythm, slurping loudly as her nails raked his inner thighs and scrotum—sharp, stinging scratches that left red trails on his skin. Wiŋyanpata arched off the pillow, shouting her name as violent tremors wracked his body. His fingers twisted the clover-patterned sheets into knots while his hips jerked uncontrollably against her face for fifteen relentless seconds.
He tried not to let her win so easily—clenching his jaw, fists, and thighs tight—and twisting sideways on the bed to escape her assault. But the lie of resistance only spurred her on. Her hands clamped onto his hips, pinning him flat as she sucked harder, faster. His groans deepened into guttural howls, each cry louder and more desperate than the last. Zon moaned around him, vibrating his cock as her nose pressed into his pubic bone. The sound drove her wild—she increased pressure, hollowing her cheeks until his balls tightened against his body.
Exactly sixty seconds after she began, Wiŋyanpata roared—a raw, primal sound that shook the silver bedframe—and erupted into her throat. Zon didn't flinch. She swallowed every pulse, her tongue massaging his shaft as she kept sucking. Her fingernails scratched crimson trails down his inner thighs, circled his scrotum, then squeezed lightly. Another wave crashed over him, weaker but just as violent. He bucked wildly, shouting curses and pleas as she milked him relentlessly.
For a full minute more, Zon worked him—tongue swirling, teeth grazing ridges, lips sealing tight. Wiŋyanpata shuddered, his climax fading to tremors. Still, she sucked, hollowing her cheeks until no more semen flowed forth from his cock. Thirty seconds later, it softened completely and lay limp in her mouth. Only then did she stop sucking him off and release him.
"Dry," she murmured, releasing him with a wet pop.
"Like the Mojave." She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, smirking at his dazed expression. "You look like a Mississaugan trout hauled onto dry land."
Zon proceeded to crawl up Wiŋyanpata's body, taking his face tenderly in her hands and saying,
"I think you need a taste of your own seed."
Zon's whisper hung between them like a spider's thread before she crushed her mouth against his. Her lips moved with bruising insistence, tongue probing deep as if mapping the contours of his surrender. Wiŋyanpata stayed rigidly still, hands fisted at his sides—not from restraint alone, but from the bone-deep exhaustion that turned his limbs to wet sand. Her fingers traced paths of fire across his shoulders, down the vulnerable hollows of his neck, then slid beneath him to knead the swollen flesh of his buttocks. Each touch reignited the phantom sting of her paddle and martinet, a cruel counterpoint to the tenderness she feigned. He gasped into her mouth, the sound swallowed whole by her hunger. *I taste like noodles,* he thought to himself as his semen hit his taste buds. *Bitter yet delicious at the same time.*
After yet another minute passed, she pulled back from the kiss and gave him a smirk before saying, "Back to work!"
Zon stood up on the bed and quickly slid her leotard down her body, not going too fast so she wouldn’t rip it. Wiŋyanpata gasped at her exposed breast and genitals, making her giggle. Stepping out of it and kicking it off the bed with her feet to the right side of it, she slid her breasts down his chest and over his belly, rubbing his penis and testicles with her nipples.
The Anglo-American Indian man clenched his teeth so that his whimpers and groans wouldn’t be audible. Then, after thirty agonizing seconds, the Arabic-Dutch woman started sliding her breasts up and down his cock, gently pinching his testicles. His muffled noises got louder, and after another thirty seconds, she started to circle her tongue around his penile crown over his frenulum and into his urethra.
Wiŋyanpata could hold back no longer. A shrill squeal tore from his throat—high-pitched and desperate, like a slaughtered pig—which only emboldened his tormentor. Zon grinned, her tongue lashing his frenulum, crown, and urethra harder, fingers tightening around his testicles. *Yes,* she thought, *this is why I built the torture table.* Few men surrendered so completely; most fought their pleasure like trapped animals, terrified of losing control. But Wiŋyanpata? He yielded, body arching off the pillow as if pulled by strings. His surrender tasted sweeter than Dutch stroopwafels.
Thirty seconds later, his cock pulsed violently against her tongue—a frantic drumbeat signaling imminent release. Zon abandoned her breasts’ teasing slide and swallowed him whole, her throat muscles clamping tight. She sucked with relentless hunger, hollowing her cheeks until his balls tightened against his pelvis. Simultaneously, her fingers pinched and rolled his scrotum like she was milking a prize Holstein. Wiŋyanpata’s scream dissolved into choked gasps, his hips bucking wildly as ropes of cum surged down her throat. She moaned around him, vibrating his shaft, and swallowed every drop without breaking rhythm.
Afterwards, Zon slid backwards, her slick skin leaving glistening trails across his belly. She pivoted gracefully onto her knees, then rose into a low squat—feet planted wide, thighs parallel to the mattress. With deliberate slowness, she turned her back to him, the curve of her ass hovering inches from his face. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened, tracking the hypnotic sway of her buttocks as she shuffled backward.
“Don’t fret, darling,” she purred, glancing over her shoulder.
“Mommy always leaves breathing room.”
Her butt descended—a soft, warm eclipse—smothering his mouth and cheeks. The scent of sweat and her musky arousal flooded his nostrils as she settled her weight gently, leaving his nose free to gasp air.
"See?" Zon murmured, grinding slow circles against his face.
“Mommy keeps her promises."
His muffled groan vibrated against her skin, answered by her low chuckle. *Her ass is impossibly soft.* Wiŋyanpata thought. Neither silk nor cotton nor velvet compared to it.
Exactly 10 seconds later, Zon shifted abruptly—her buttocks slid upward to smother his nose, eyes, and forehead, forcing him to breathe through his mouth now. Wiŋyanpata gasped against her slick skin, the sudden darkness and pressure scrambling his senses. Zon moaned theatrically—a low, vibrating purr that shook through her thighs—as if riding an invisible wave of ecstasy. After another ten seconds, she dropped back down, sealing his mouth and cheeks beneath her warmth, his muffled groans swallowed by flesh. Back and forth she rocked—nose-eyes-forehead, then mouth-cheeks—like a metronome counting down his disorientation. Each shift left him dizzy, oxygen-starved, and hyper-aware of her musk clinging to his skin.
60 seconds later, Zon stopped rubbing her butt in circles on his face and started to shake it from side to side, moving his head back-and-forth along with her ass. Again she alternate between covering his nose, eyes, and forehead, and then his mouth and cheek cheeks, ensuring that his breathing was never obstructed.
As she did this motion, she hissed like a cat toying with its prey, which in a way she was. She said to him sadistically, "I bet you're getting dizzy, aren't you, love? My butt is rattling your brain, isn't it?"
Wiŋyanpata groaned against her skin, the sound muffled and thick. She chuckled, feeling the vibrations against her flesh.
"Good. Keep those noises coming. They're music to my ears."
Sixty seconds later, Zon lifted her buttocks from Wiŋyanpata’s face with a wet smack, leaving his cheeks flushed and slick with sweat. She pivoted smoothly on her knees, breasts swaying as she leaned forward, her nipples grazing his lips.
"Revenge time, little spy," she purred, pressing her left breast firmly against his mouth.
"Suck it like you mean it. Show me what that tongue can do."
Wiŋyanpata obeyed with surprising enthusiasm, his mouth sealing around her nipple with a wet pop. He sucked hard—not the tentative flickering of before, but deep, rhythmic pulls that made Zon gasp and arch her spine. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pressing his face tighter against her breast as he worked the stiff peak with tongue and teeth. A low moan vibrated in her throat, genuine and uncontrolled, and he felt a jolt of triumph at pulling such raw sound from her. This was power too—not the whip-crack dominance she wielded, but the quiet leverage of pleasure given and received.
Exactly two minutes later, Zon tore herself away with a sharp gasp, her nipple glistening and swollen. She stood abruptly on the mattress and shoved Wiŋyanpata’s shoulders downward.
“Kneel,” she commanded, her voice thick with authority. He scrambled into position, knees sinking into the soft sheets as she pivoted, presenting herself inches from his face.
“Now eat me out,” she hissed, pressing her hips forward until his nose brushed her skin.
“Make me scream like you did when I sucked you dry.”
Her command hung between them like a knife poised to drop.
Wiŋyanpata didn't hesitate—he dove forward, burying his face between her thighs with the desperation of a man escaping fire. His tongue stabbed deep into her wetness, a sudden invasion that ripped a startled gasp from Zon's lips.
Then he shifted tactics—nipping around the edge of her clit with his teeth, sharp little bites that skirted pain, while rubbing his nose firmly against the skin above it in slow, insistent circles. The dual assault—teeth grazing her most sensitive nerve endings while his nose pressed rhythmic pressure against her pubic bone—drove Zon mad. Her scream tore through the bedroom, raw and ragged: "WIIŊYANPATA!"
She tried clamping her thighs around his head to trap him—to control the rhythm—but he fought the pressure, wedging his shoulders wider to maintain access. His tongue became relentless, tracing figure-eights around her clit while his chin dug into her perineum. She lasted exactly fifty-nine seconds before her hips snapped forward, grinding hard against his face as her orgasm hit—a gush of hot fluid flooding his mouth, bitter-salty-sweet like brine-steeped plums. Wiŋyanpata swallowed greedily, moaning against her skin as her thighs trembled around his ears.
Her amber eyes drifted to the ceiling fan above, its blades slicing lazy circles through the air. Perfect. She imagined him suspended there, wrists bound to its sturdy frame, body swaying like ripe fruit, or perhaps from the basement pipes, which were much sturdier, as she circled him. The fantasy crystallized: she’d tease him with feather-light tickles along his ribs, then bite the curve of his shoulder hard enough to bruise. Her nails would rake down his back, reopening the faint welts beneath his buttermilk-scented skin. Each sharp spank would echo in the cavernous space, his breath hitching as she alternated cruelty and tenderness. He’d beg, she decided. Not for mercy, but for more.
The hanging position would also be perfect for her martinet. Unlike when she had him tied to the wood table, all of his body would be exposed, and she be able to lash every single spot with her martinet.
She’d start with his feet—the soles were sensitive, and he’d squirm deliciously—then work up his calves and thighs. His ass would be the main course, followed by his chest and sensitive nipples, then she lashes shoulders and the nape of his neck, the ladder of which would sting terribly. Zon would save his genitals for last. No mercy this time. His cock and balls would take the full force of her strikes until they were swollen and throbbing, a canvas of crimson welts. She’d watch his face contort, tears mingling with sweat, as he endured it all without complaint. *He’ll take whatever I have to give him, whatever punishment I dish out, until I decide to stop.*
Exactly sixty minutes later, Zon rose from the couch and padded silently back to her bedroom. The door clicked open to reveal Wiŋyanpata still sprawled on the silver-framed bed, his breathing deep and even. She approached with predatory grace, her fingers brushing his shoulder before she gently rolled him onto his back. A plush pillow slid beneath his hips, lifting his bruised flesh into prominence. Her blonde ponytail, freed from its bun, became her weapon—she trailed the silken strands teasingly over his scrotum, then along the length of his flaccid cock. A low moan escaped his lips as he stirred, hips arching instinctively toward the sensation.
"Big boy’s waking up," she murmured, her voice honeyed steel. When his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and lingering pain, she leaned close.
"Touch me," she warned, amber gaze locking onto his, "and this ends. Understood?"
He nodded frantically and said, “Yes ma’am!”
Zon’s lips curved into a predatory smile. Without hesitation, she engulfed his entire length in her mouth, her blonde ponytail brushing against his thighs as she bowed her head. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive head before plunging down again, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp. She set a furious rhythm, slurping loudly as her nails raked his inner thighs and scrotum—sharp, stinging scratches that left red trails on his skin. Wiŋyanpata arched off the pillow, shouting her name as violent tremors wracked his body. His fingers twisted the clover-patterned sheets into knots while his hips jerked uncontrollably against her face for fifteen relentless seconds.
He tried not to let her win so easily—clenching his jaw, fists, and thighs tight—and twisting sideways on the bed to escape her assault. But the lie of resistance only spurred her on. Her hands clamped onto his hips, pinning him flat as she sucked harder, faster. His groans deepened into guttural howls, each cry louder and more desperate than the last. Zon moaned around him, vibrating his cock as her nose pressed into his pubic bone. The sound drove her wild—she increased pressure, hollowing her cheeks until his balls tightened against his body.
Exactly sixty seconds after she began, Wiŋyanpata roared—a raw, primal sound that shook the silver bedframe—and erupted into her throat. Zon didn't flinch. She swallowed every pulse, her tongue massaging his shaft as she kept sucking. Her fingernails scratched crimson trails down his inner thighs, circled his scrotum, then squeezed lightly. Another wave crashed over him, weaker but just as violent. He bucked wildly, shouting curses and pleas as she milked him relentlessly.
For a full minute more, Zon worked him—tongue swirling, teeth grazing ridges, lips sealing tight. Wiŋyanpata shuddered, his climax fading to tremors. Still, she sucked, hollowing her cheeks until no more semen flowed forth from his cock. Thirty seconds later, it softened completely and lay limp in her mouth. Only then did she stop sucking him off and release him.
"Dry," she murmured, releasing him with a wet pop.
"Like the Mojave." She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, smirking at his dazed expression. "You look like a Mississaugan trout hauled onto dry land."
Zon proceeded to crawl up Wiŋyanpata's body, taking his face tenderly in her hands and saying,
"I think you need a taste of your own seed."
Zon's whisper hung between them like a spider's thread before she crushed her mouth against his. Her lips moved with bruising insistence, tongue probing deep as if mapping the contours of his surrender. Wiŋyanpata stayed rigidly still, hands fisted at his sides—not from restraint alone, but from the bone-deep exhaustion that turned his limbs to wet sand. Her fingers traced paths of fire across his shoulders, down the vulnerable hollows of his neck, then slid beneath him to knead the swollen flesh of his buttocks. Each touch reignited the phantom sting of her paddle and martinet, a cruel counterpoint to the tenderness she feigned. He gasped into her mouth, the sound swallowed whole by her hunger. *I taste like noodles,* he thought to himself as his semen hit his taste buds. *Bitter yet delicious at the same time.*
After yet another minute passed, she pulled back from the kiss and gave him a smirk before saying, "Back to work!"
Zon stood up on the bed and quickly slid her leotard down her body, not going too fast so she wouldn’t rip it. Wiŋyanpata gasped at her exposed breast and genitals, making her giggle. Stepping out of it and kicking it off the bed with her feet to the right side of it, she slid her breasts down his chest and over his belly, rubbing his penis and testicles with her nipples.
The Anglo-American Indian man clenched his teeth so that his whimpers and groans wouldn’t be audible. Then, after thirty agonizing seconds, the Arabic-Dutch woman started sliding her breasts up and down his cock, gently pinching his testicles. His muffled noises got louder, and after another thirty seconds, she started to circle her tongue around his penile crown over his frenulum and into his urethra.
Wiŋyanpata could hold back no longer. A shrill squeal tore from his throat—high-pitched and desperate, like a slaughtered pig—which only emboldened his tormentor. Zon grinned, her tongue lashing his frenulum, crown, and urethra harder, fingers tightening around his testicles. *Yes,* she thought, *this is why I built the torture table.* Few men surrendered so completely; most fought their pleasure like trapped animals, terrified of losing control. But Wiŋyanpata? He yielded, body arching off the pillow as if pulled by strings. His surrender tasted sweeter than Dutch stroopwafels.
Thirty seconds later, his cock pulsed violently against her tongue—a frantic drumbeat signaling imminent release. Zon abandoned her breasts’ teasing slide and swallowed him whole, her throat muscles clamping tight. She sucked with relentless hunger, hollowing her cheeks until his balls tightened against his pelvis. Simultaneously, her fingers pinched and rolled his scrotum like she was milking a prize Holstein. Wiŋyanpata’s scream dissolved into choked gasps, his hips bucking wildly as ropes of cum surged down her throat. She moaned around him, vibrating his shaft, and swallowed every drop without breaking rhythm.
Afterwards, Zon slid backwards, her slick skin leaving glistening trails across his belly. She pivoted gracefully onto her knees, then rose into a low squat—feet planted wide, thighs parallel to the mattress. With deliberate slowness, she turned her back to him, the curve of her ass hovering inches from his face. Wiŋyanpata’s eyes widened, tracking the hypnotic sway of her buttocks as she shuffled backward.
“Don’t fret, darling,” she purred, glancing over her shoulder.
“Mommy always leaves breathing room.”
Her butt descended—a soft, warm eclipse—smothering his mouth and cheeks. The scent of sweat and her musky arousal flooded his nostrils as she settled her weight gently, leaving his nose free to gasp air.
"See?" Zon murmured, grinding slow circles against his face.
“Mommy keeps her promises."
His muffled groan vibrated against her skin, answered by her low chuckle. *Her ass is impossibly soft.* Wiŋyanpata thought. Neither silk nor cotton nor velvet compared to it.
Exactly 10 seconds later, Zon shifted abruptly—her buttocks slid upward to smother his nose, eyes, and forehead, forcing him to breathe through his mouth now. Wiŋyanpata gasped against her slick skin, the sudden darkness and pressure scrambling his senses. Zon moaned theatrically—a low, vibrating purr that shook through her thighs—as if riding an invisible wave of ecstasy. After another ten seconds, she dropped back down, sealing his mouth and cheeks beneath her warmth, his muffled groans swallowed by flesh. Back and forth she rocked—nose-eyes-forehead, then mouth-cheeks—like a metronome counting down his disorientation. Each shift left him dizzy, oxygen-starved, and hyper-aware of her musk clinging to his skin.
60 seconds later, Zon stopped rubbing her butt in circles on his face and started to shake it from side to side, moving his head back-and-forth along with her ass. Again she alternate between covering his nose, eyes, and forehead, and then his mouth and cheek cheeks, ensuring that his breathing was never obstructed.
As she did this motion, she hissed like a cat toying with its prey, which in a way she was. She said to him sadistically, "I bet you're getting dizzy, aren't you, love? My butt is rattling your brain, isn't it?"
Wiŋyanpata groaned against her skin, the sound muffled and thick. She chuckled, feeling the vibrations against her flesh.
"Good. Keep those noises coming. They're music to my ears."
Sixty seconds later, Zon lifted her buttocks from Wiŋyanpata’s face with a wet smack, leaving his cheeks flushed and slick with sweat. She pivoted smoothly on her knees, breasts swaying as she leaned forward, her nipples grazing his lips.
"Revenge time, little spy," she purred, pressing her left breast firmly against his mouth.
"Suck it like you mean it. Show me what that tongue can do."
Wiŋyanpata obeyed with surprising enthusiasm, his mouth sealing around her nipple with a wet pop. He sucked hard—not the tentative flickering of before, but deep, rhythmic pulls that made Zon gasp and arch her spine. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pressing his face tighter against her breast as he worked the stiff peak with tongue and teeth. A low moan vibrated in her throat, genuine and uncontrolled, and he felt a jolt of triumph at pulling such raw sound from her. This was power too—not the whip-crack dominance she wielded, but the quiet leverage of pleasure given and received.
Exactly two minutes later, Zon tore herself away with a sharp gasp, her nipple glistening and swollen. She stood abruptly on the mattress and shoved Wiŋyanpata’s shoulders downward.
“Kneel,” she commanded, her voice thick with authority. He scrambled into position, knees sinking into the soft sheets as she pivoted, presenting herself inches from his face.
“Now eat me out,” she hissed, pressing her hips forward until his nose brushed her skin.
“Make me scream like you did when I sucked you dry.”
Her command hung between them like a knife poised to drop.
Wiŋyanpata didn't hesitate—he dove forward, burying his face between her thighs with the desperation of a man escaping fire. His tongue stabbed deep into her wetness, a sudden invasion that ripped a startled gasp from Zon's lips.
Then he shifted tactics—nipping around the edge of her clit with his teeth, sharp little bites that skirted pain, while rubbing his nose firmly against the skin above it in slow, insistent circles. The dual assault—teeth grazing her most sensitive nerve endings while his nose pressed rhythmic pressure against her pubic bone—drove Zon mad. Her scream tore through the bedroom, raw and ragged: "WIIŊYANPATA!"
She tried clamping her thighs around his head to trap him—to control the rhythm—but he fought the pressure, wedging his shoulders wider to maintain access. His tongue became relentless, tracing figure-eights around her clit while his chin dug into her perineum. She lasted exactly fifty-nine seconds before her hips snapped forward, grinding hard against his face as her orgasm hit—a gush of hot fluid flooding his mouth, bitter-salty-sweet like brine-steeped plums. Wiŋyanpata swallowed greedily, moaning against her skin as her thighs trembled around his ears.
31-35, M