The real Zoe Nightshade part 5
Zon shoved him away abruptly, chest heaving. "Flat," she gasped, pushing his shoulders down onto the mattress. Her eyes—amber wildfire—locked onto his.
"Grand finale." She straddled his hips, palms pressing firmly against his pectorals. Her pussy hovered above his cockhead, slick heat radiating onto the sensitive skin. For thirty agonizing seconds, she rubbed herself back-and-forth across his tip—slow, deliberate strokes that drew choked whimpers from his throat. His head thrashed side-to-side against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as sensation overloaded his nerves.
"Look at me," Zon commanded, her voice low and smoky. When his eyes snapped open, she sank onto him slowly—inch by excruciating inch—until he was fully sheathed inside her. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as her inner muscles clenched like a fist around his shaft.
"Ah!" Wiŋyanpata cried out, his mouth forming a perfect O-shape while his eyebrows shot upward like startled birds. The sound—clear and resonant as a tenor hitting high C—made Zon burst into giggles. Her laughter shook her body, tightening her grip around him until he groaned again, this time lower and rougher.
She began bouncing: one deliberate lift-and-drop per second, deep and grinding, making his hips arch off the mattress. Then she slowed—one heavy descent every two seconds, dragging the sensation into exquisite torment. Finally, she accelerated: two rapid-fire pumps per second, shallow and frantic, her pelvis slapping against his thighs. She cycled through these rhythms—deep-slow, deep-slow, fast-fast—over and over, her movements precise as a metronome.
Wiŋyanpata gasped. Her mouth had been velvet fire, but this—this was liquid lightning. Her inner walls pulsed around him like a living vise, massaging his shaft with rhythmic contractions that mirrored her bouncing. He felt his climax surge violently—a tidal wave crashing against a dam—and clenched every muscle: jaw, fists, thighs, buttocks. He held back, sweat stinging his eyes, knowing premature release would earn only scorn. Zon’s amber eyes locked onto his, mocking his struggle as she alternated between agonizingly slow descents and rapid, shallow strokes.
Exactly sixty seconds after penetration, he shattered. A guttural roar ripped from his throat as he bucked upward, hips lifting her entire weight off the mattress. Semen surged into her womb—hot, urgent pulses that made Zon gasp and dig her nails into his pectorals. She froze instantly, hips locked flush against his pelvis, her inner muscles clamping down in a relentless, rhythmic vise. "Oh no, you don't," she hissed through clenched teeth, grinding her clit against his pubic bone.
"Every drop. You spill *nothing*."
Her vaginal walls pulsed like a starfish devouring prey, milking him with slow, deliberate contractions that extended his climax far beyond its natural peak. Wiŋyanpata screamed, a raw sound shredded by disbelief, as her body wrung wave after burning wave from him—thirty seconds, then forty, his cock trapped in her liquid furnace.
Zon collapsed onto his chest, her sweat-slick skin sealing against his like wet parchment. Her hips remained fused to his, grinding in tiny circles as her muscles continued their ruthless squeezing.
"Shhh," she murmured into his ear, her breath hot against the shell, "just let go."
Her teeth grazed his earlobe, sharp and possessive, while her fingers traced the fresh scratches on his pectorals—each touch reigniting pain beneath the suffocating pleasure. Sixty seconds passed. Then seventy. His tremors faded to twitches, his cock softening inside her, yet she squeezed tighter, refusing release until his gasps turned shallow and his eyes rolled back. Only at ninety seconds did his seed stop flowing, his manhood finally limp as a gummy worm against her cervix.
Zon pulled herself off him with a wet, sucking sound—like a boot freeing itself from thick mud—and grinned down at his wrecked form. "Wild ride, huh?" she murmured affectionately, leaning in to brush her lips against his, gentle as a moth landing. Her arms wrapped around his head, fingers threading through his sweat-soaked hair, cradling him against her breasts. She held him like that—silent, rocking slightly—for ninety seconds exactly, her heartbeat a steady drum against his temple. Then, with a playful wiggle, she rolled off of him to the left side.
"Stand up, off the bed, now!” Zon commanded suddenly, her voice sharp as shattered glass. Wiŋyanpata blinked, disoriented—but obeyed instantly. The ninety-second rest against her warmth had rewired his exhaustion; strength flooded his limbs like voltage through dead wires. He rose, swaying only slightly, as Zon rolled to the mattress edge and swung her legs off. She climbed backward onto the sheets on all fours, knees sinking deep into the silver-barred frame, then shook her buttocks at him—a deliberate, mocking tremor. “Ram that big dick up my ass, honey,” she ordered, glancing over her shoulder with a grin that dared him to disbelieve her. When he froze, she laughed—bright and cruel—and shook her hips again. “Is that too much for you, baby?” The taunt hung between them like a gauntlet thrown.
Pride flared hot in Wiŋyanpata’s chest, hotter than the sting of her martinet. He lunged forward, palms slapping against her buttocks, fingers digging into the soft flesh to wrench her cheeks apart. His cock hardened instantly against her cleft—not to tear, not to punish, but to conquer. Without ceremony, he drove himself into her tightness, burying his length to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Zon’s screech ripped through the room—high, feline, utterly startled—as her knuckles whitened against the clover-patterned sheets.
"Lesson time," he growled, hips pistoning, "for mocking me!"
Each word punctuated by a savage snap of his pelvis: "Take—this!"
The Dutch-Arabic woman's gasp choked off.
"And—that!"
Her spine arched. "This—too!"
Zon's elbows buckled.
"And—some—of—this!"
He punctuated each syllable with a deeper plunge, her body yielding to his rhythm like wet clay beneath a potter’s wheel. Sweat slicked brow, Zon’s choked whimpers fueling him as Wiŋyanpata’s hammered into her—not just fucking, but reclaiming.
Exactly two minutes after penetration, he roared—a sound like splitting timber—and flooded her bowels with thick, urgent pulses. Her rectum clenched instinctively around him, triggering a sharp gasp from Zon as pain flared. Wiŋyanpata groaned, hips jerking uncontrollably for twenty brutal seconds, filling her until her lower abdomen visibly swelled beneath her skin, taut as an overfilled water balloon. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles bleached bone-white.
He pulled out abruptly—a wet, sucking pop—leaving her trembling. Zon gingerly lifted herself onto her elbows, wincing. "Fuck," she hissed, twisting to glance back at her buttocks. Wiŋyanpata spread her cheeks apart again: her anus bloomed crimson, inflamed and swollen like a crushed raspberry. She laughed weakly, pivoting to face him. "Wanna join me in the shower?" Before he could rasp a reply—his limbs leaden from exertion—she slid off the bed and padded toward the hallway, her gait stiff and careful.
Wiŋyanpata hesitated only a few seconds—the scent of betel nut and salt hanging thick—before rushing after her. They walked silently to the bathroom, tiles cool beneath their feet. Inside the glass enclosure, Zon turned the showerhead to a non-scorching heat, steam fogging the mirrors. "Lay back," she ordered softly, guiding him onto the porcelain bench. He obeyed, eyes drifting shut as warm water sluiced over his welted skin. Her hands moved with surprising tenderness, lathering cinnamon-scented body wash across his chest, thighs, and buttocks—the soap stinging then soothing his whip marks. When she nudged him onto his stomach, he groaned; her fingers kneaded his shoulders and lower back, the hot water and rhythmic pressure dissolving tension like sugar in tea. His breathing deepened, slowed... then stopped mid-inhale as darkness swallowed him whole.
He awoke to afternoon light slicing through dusty cabin windows, naked beneath coarse wool blankets. The air smelled of pine resin and old woodsmoke—his own bed. Panic flared until he spotted the folded note on the pillow beside him. Zon's angular handwriting stabbed the paper: * I left your keys under the porch mat. You fell asleep in the shower. I couldn’t bear to wake you up so I had another employee drive you home. I was in the car too, and I brought you to your bed and talk to you in. You got a cozy little place here. Next time, we won’t be doing role-play. It’ll just be punishment, pure and simple. I’m gonna tie you to my ceiling fan or basement pipes, that way I can have access to your entire body. I’ll use the martinet again, and I won’t show you mercy this time. I’ll keep hitting your dick and balls over and over along the rest of your body and you’ll take it, until I decide that I’m finished. If you cry, beg me for mercy, and try to free your hands, that’ll only encourage me and make it more fun!*
Wiŋyanpata’s fingers trembled as he reread the final line. The memory of the martinet’s kiss—those cruel leather tails biting into his genitals—flooded back. even though she had only hit him once, and it had only hit his scrotum in the top of his penis, instead of the underside, it had felt like liquid fire injected straight into his nerves. He’d screamed then, truly screamed, a sound ripped from somewhere deeper than his lungs. Yet now, alone in his cabin’s silence, his cock stirred traitorously against the wool blanket. The terror was real, visceral—a cold sweat prickling his neck—but beneath it pulsed a darker, hungrier current: the thrill of absolute surrender. Knowing Zon would strip him of control, bind him like a specimen, and make him endure whatever exquisite torment she devised? That anticipation coiled hot and heavy in his belly. He couldn’t escape her. Wouldn’t *want* to. The helplessness itself was the drug.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, legs still loose-jointed from yesterday’s exertions. The pine-plank floor felt rough beneath his bare soles. He needed to see the damage—needed proof that the nightmarish pleasure hadn’t been some fever dream. Facing the mirror above the chipped porcelain sink, he gripped the waistband of his sweatpants. He hesitated, breath fogging the glass. What awaited him? A roadmap of humiliation? A testament to endurance? Both, likely. With a sharp tug, he yanked the fabric down past his hips, twisting to glimpse his reflection over his shoulder.
The bruises bloomed like storm clouds across his buttocks—deep violets and sulfurous yellows layered beneath the skin. He'd braced for the paddle's neat rectangles and the martinet's livid stripes, but not for Zon's handprints. Despite being overlapped by the two implements, they were still visible and distinct. Numerous palm-shaped bruises bloomed across his buttocks like primitive cave paintings.
He traced one with a fingertip, wincing. Her palm alone—unarmed, unadorned—had nearly broken him during the interrogation. Firm, open-handed smacks to his buttocks, delivered with terrifying torque from her shoulder, had rattled his teeth and liquefied his knees. Each impact echoed through bone, vibrating up his spine like a tuning fork struck against concrete. He'd almost confessed to espionage—almost begged—after the fifth blow. Only pride (or stupidity) had kept him silent.
But the paddle? Wiŋyanpata shuddered, recalling its distinctive silhouette: dark oak, drilled with neat rows of holes. As Zon had explained, those holes weren't decorative, they reduced wind resistance, allowing faster, harder swings. The first strike had felt less like impact and more like excavation—a concentrated excavation of pain that bypassed skin and muscle, burrowing straight into the marrow of his pelvis. He’d screamed then, truly screamed, a sound ripped from somewhere primal and raw. He’d been certain, absolutely *certain*, that the next blow would shatter his resolve—or his pelvis. Yet, even though it hurt like a motherfucker, he hadn't broken. Yes, he had begged her to stop, but he hadn't “admitted” to being a spy. He’d endured. He’d taken it. That realization—that he *could* endure—sent a strange thrill through him now, cold and electric.
"Grand finale." She straddled his hips, palms pressing firmly against his pectorals. Her pussy hovered above his cockhead, slick heat radiating onto the sensitive skin. For thirty agonizing seconds, she rubbed herself back-and-forth across his tip—slow, deliberate strokes that drew choked whimpers from his throat. His head thrashed side-to-side against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as sensation overloaded his nerves.
"Look at me," Zon commanded, her voice low and smoky. When his eyes snapped open, she sank onto him slowly—inch by excruciating inch—until he was fully sheathed inside her. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as her inner muscles clenched like a fist around his shaft.
"Ah!" Wiŋyanpata cried out, his mouth forming a perfect O-shape while his eyebrows shot upward like startled birds. The sound—clear and resonant as a tenor hitting high C—made Zon burst into giggles. Her laughter shook her body, tightening her grip around him until he groaned again, this time lower and rougher.
She began bouncing: one deliberate lift-and-drop per second, deep and grinding, making his hips arch off the mattress. Then she slowed—one heavy descent every two seconds, dragging the sensation into exquisite torment. Finally, she accelerated: two rapid-fire pumps per second, shallow and frantic, her pelvis slapping against his thighs. She cycled through these rhythms—deep-slow, deep-slow, fast-fast—over and over, her movements precise as a metronome.
Wiŋyanpata gasped. Her mouth had been velvet fire, but this—this was liquid lightning. Her inner walls pulsed around him like a living vise, massaging his shaft with rhythmic contractions that mirrored her bouncing. He felt his climax surge violently—a tidal wave crashing against a dam—and clenched every muscle: jaw, fists, thighs, buttocks. He held back, sweat stinging his eyes, knowing premature release would earn only scorn. Zon’s amber eyes locked onto his, mocking his struggle as she alternated between agonizingly slow descents and rapid, shallow strokes.
Exactly sixty seconds after penetration, he shattered. A guttural roar ripped from his throat as he bucked upward, hips lifting her entire weight off the mattress. Semen surged into her womb—hot, urgent pulses that made Zon gasp and dig her nails into his pectorals. She froze instantly, hips locked flush against his pelvis, her inner muscles clamping down in a relentless, rhythmic vise. "Oh no, you don't," she hissed through clenched teeth, grinding her clit against his pubic bone.
"Every drop. You spill *nothing*."
Her vaginal walls pulsed like a starfish devouring prey, milking him with slow, deliberate contractions that extended his climax far beyond its natural peak. Wiŋyanpata screamed, a raw sound shredded by disbelief, as her body wrung wave after burning wave from him—thirty seconds, then forty, his cock trapped in her liquid furnace.
Zon collapsed onto his chest, her sweat-slick skin sealing against his like wet parchment. Her hips remained fused to his, grinding in tiny circles as her muscles continued their ruthless squeezing.
"Shhh," she murmured into his ear, her breath hot against the shell, "just let go."
Her teeth grazed his earlobe, sharp and possessive, while her fingers traced the fresh scratches on his pectorals—each touch reigniting pain beneath the suffocating pleasure. Sixty seconds passed. Then seventy. His tremors faded to twitches, his cock softening inside her, yet she squeezed tighter, refusing release until his gasps turned shallow and his eyes rolled back. Only at ninety seconds did his seed stop flowing, his manhood finally limp as a gummy worm against her cervix.
Zon pulled herself off him with a wet, sucking sound—like a boot freeing itself from thick mud—and grinned down at his wrecked form. "Wild ride, huh?" she murmured affectionately, leaning in to brush her lips against his, gentle as a moth landing. Her arms wrapped around his head, fingers threading through his sweat-soaked hair, cradling him against her breasts. She held him like that—silent, rocking slightly—for ninety seconds exactly, her heartbeat a steady drum against his temple. Then, with a playful wiggle, she rolled off of him to the left side.
"Stand up, off the bed, now!” Zon commanded suddenly, her voice sharp as shattered glass. Wiŋyanpata blinked, disoriented—but obeyed instantly. The ninety-second rest against her warmth had rewired his exhaustion; strength flooded his limbs like voltage through dead wires. He rose, swaying only slightly, as Zon rolled to the mattress edge and swung her legs off. She climbed backward onto the sheets on all fours, knees sinking deep into the silver-barred frame, then shook her buttocks at him—a deliberate, mocking tremor. “Ram that big dick up my ass, honey,” she ordered, glancing over her shoulder with a grin that dared him to disbelieve her. When he froze, she laughed—bright and cruel—and shook her hips again. “Is that too much for you, baby?” The taunt hung between them like a gauntlet thrown.
Pride flared hot in Wiŋyanpata’s chest, hotter than the sting of her martinet. He lunged forward, palms slapping against her buttocks, fingers digging into the soft flesh to wrench her cheeks apart. His cock hardened instantly against her cleft—not to tear, not to punish, but to conquer. Without ceremony, he drove himself into her tightness, burying his length to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Zon’s screech ripped through the room—high, feline, utterly startled—as her knuckles whitened against the clover-patterned sheets.
"Lesson time," he growled, hips pistoning, "for mocking me!"
Each word punctuated by a savage snap of his pelvis: "Take—this!"
The Dutch-Arabic woman's gasp choked off.
"And—that!"
Her spine arched. "This—too!"
Zon's elbows buckled.
"And—some—of—this!"
He punctuated each syllable with a deeper plunge, her body yielding to his rhythm like wet clay beneath a potter’s wheel. Sweat slicked brow, Zon’s choked whimpers fueling him as Wiŋyanpata’s hammered into her—not just fucking, but reclaiming.
Exactly two minutes after penetration, he roared—a sound like splitting timber—and flooded her bowels with thick, urgent pulses. Her rectum clenched instinctively around him, triggering a sharp gasp from Zon as pain flared. Wiŋyanpata groaned, hips jerking uncontrollably for twenty brutal seconds, filling her until her lower abdomen visibly swelled beneath her skin, taut as an overfilled water balloon. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles bleached bone-white.
He pulled out abruptly—a wet, sucking pop—leaving her trembling. Zon gingerly lifted herself onto her elbows, wincing. "Fuck," she hissed, twisting to glance back at her buttocks. Wiŋyanpata spread her cheeks apart again: her anus bloomed crimson, inflamed and swollen like a crushed raspberry. She laughed weakly, pivoting to face him. "Wanna join me in the shower?" Before he could rasp a reply—his limbs leaden from exertion—she slid off the bed and padded toward the hallway, her gait stiff and careful.
Wiŋyanpata hesitated only a few seconds—the scent of betel nut and salt hanging thick—before rushing after her. They walked silently to the bathroom, tiles cool beneath their feet. Inside the glass enclosure, Zon turned the showerhead to a non-scorching heat, steam fogging the mirrors. "Lay back," she ordered softly, guiding him onto the porcelain bench. He obeyed, eyes drifting shut as warm water sluiced over his welted skin. Her hands moved with surprising tenderness, lathering cinnamon-scented body wash across his chest, thighs, and buttocks—the soap stinging then soothing his whip marks. When she nudged him onto his stomach, he groaned; her fingers kneaded his shoulders and lower back, the hot water and rhythmic pressure dissolving tension like sugar in tea. His breathing deepened, slowed... then stopped mid-inhale as darkness swallowed him whole.
He awoke to afternoon light slicing through dusty cabin windows, naked beneath coarse wool blankets. The air smelled of pine resin and old woodsmoke—his own bed. Panic flared until he spotted the folded note on the pillow beside him. Zon's angular handwriting stabbed the paper: * I left your keys under the porch mat. You fell asleep in the shower. I couldn’t bear to wake you up so I had another employee drive you home. I was in the car too, and I brought you to your bed and talk to you in. You got a cozy little place here. Next time, we won’t be doing role-play. It’ll just be punishment, pure and simple. I’m gonna tie you to my ceiling fan or basement pipes, that way I can have access to your entire body. I’ll use the martinet again, and I won’t show you mercy this time. I’ll keep hitting your dick and balls over and over along the rest of your body and you’ll take it, until I decide that I’m finished. If you cry, beg me for mercy, and try to free your hands, that’ll only encourage me and make it more fun!*
Wiŋyanpata’s fingers trembled as he reread the final line. The memory of the martinet’s kiss—those cruel leather tails biting into his genitals—flooded back. even though she had only hit him once, and it had only hit his scrotum in the top of his penis, instead of the underside, it had felt like liquid fire injected straight into his nerves. He’d screamed then, truly screamed, a sound ripped from somewhere deeper than his lungs. Yet now, alone in his cabin’s silence, his cock stirred traitorously against the wool blanket. The terror was real, visceral—a cold sweat prickling his neck—but beneath it pulsed a darker, hungrier current: the thrill of absolute surrender. Knowing Zon would strip him of control, bind him like a specimen, and make him endure whatever exquisite torment she devised? That anticipation coiled hot and heavy in his belly. He couldn’t escape her. Wouldn’t *want* to. The helplessness itself was the drug.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, legs still loose-jointed from yesterday’s exertions. The pine-plank floor felt rough beneath his bare soles. He needed to see the damage—needed proof that the nightmarish pleasure hadn’t been some fever dream. Facing the mirror above the chipped porcelain sink, he gripped the waistband of his sweatpants. He hesitated, breath fogging the glass. What awaited him? A roadmap of humiliation? A testament to endurance? Both, likely. With a sharp tug, he yanked the fabric down past his hips, twisting to glimpse his reflection over his shoulder.
The bruises bloomed like storm clouds across his buttocks—deep violets and sulfurous yellows layered beneath the skin. He'd braced for the paddle's neat rectangles and the martinet's livid stripes, but not for Zon's handprints. Despite being overlapped by the two implements, they were still visible and distinct. Numerous palm-shaped bruises bloomed across his buttocks like primitive cave paintings.
He traced one with a fingertip, wincing. Her palm alone—unarmed, unadorned—had nearly broken him during the interrogation. Firm, open-handed smacks to his buttocks, delivered with terrifying torque from her shoulder, had rattled his teeth and liquefied his knees. Each impact echoed through bone, vibrating up his spine like a tuning fork struck against concrete. He'd almost confessed to espionage—almost begged—after the fifth blow. Only pride (or stupidity) had kept him silent.
But the paddle? Wiŋyanpata shuddered, recalling its distinctive silhouette: dark oak, drilled with neat rows of holes. As Zon had explained, those holes weren't decorative, they reduced wind resistance, allowing faster, harder swings. The first strike had felt less like impact and more like excavation—a concentrated excavation of pain that bypassed skin and muscle, burrowing straight into the marrow of his pelvis. He’d screamed then, truly screamed, a sound ripped from somewhere primal and raw. He’d been certain, absolutely *certain*, that the next blow would shatter his resolve—or his pelvis. Yet, even though it hurt like a motherfucker, he hadn't broken. Yes, he had begged her to stop, but he hadn't “admitted” to being a spy. He’d endured. He’d taken it. That realization—that he *could* endure—sent a strange thrill through him now, cold and electric.
31-35, M