It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since I let myself fall apart in that shop, in front of a stranger. I thought I’d get over it. I thought the fire would burn out, that the hunger would fade.

But it didn’t.

Nights are the worst. That’s when it hits hardest. When I’m alone in my bed, too quiet, and the heat inside me starts waking up. The memory of what happened in Zorba’s hits me like a hard slap. The way I felt when I touched myself, when I let him watch me, when she watched too. I still can’t shake the way it felt. Like I’d stepped outside myself, like I was someone else entirely. Someone brave.

And now? I can’t stop thinking about it. Every night, I end up in the same damn place… a hand buried between my legs, teeth biting down hard on my wrist to stop from screaming. But it’s not enough. Nothing is.

I’ve tried to ignore it. I really have. I’ve told myself I’m done. Told myself I’m better than this.

But I’m not.

Tonight, I caught myself at the window again, fingers sliding over the glass, heat spreading through my body. I stared at my reflection, flushed and out of breath.

It was in my eyes. I didn’t even recognize myself.

That’s when I knew.

It’s not about fantasies anymore. It’s about the real thing. The thing that’s eating me alive. The thing I can’t ignore anymore.

I grabbed my purse, my hand shaking as I fumbled for my keys. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just acted. I needed to feel it again.

Jeans. I didn’t even bother with a bra, just grabbed a loose top from the chair and threw it on. Nothing too tight, nothing that would make me stand out. I was in a rush. I didn’t have time to care about anything except the burning inside me.

I left the house in a hurry, not bothering with panties at first, then grabbing a pair from the drawer. I couldn’t go without them. Not this time. Not when I was already this close to breaking.

I didn’t even think about it. I was halfway to Zorba’s before I realized it.

___ 🐺 ___

It’s just past eleven when I arrive. The streets slick with rain and the air thick with the smell of wet asphalt. Arizona doesn’t get this kind of weather often. The steady, patient rain that taps on the roof like it’s got all night. My top clings to my back where it’s soaked through. I didn’t bring a jacket. Didn’t even think to.

Zorba’s sits halfway down the main strip, on the edge of the city’s neglected stretch. The kind of block where old neon fights to stay lit, and everything has the look of being closed, even when it’s not. Faded storefronts, flickering street lights, graffiti bleeding down damp walls. It doesn’t feel dangerous, just... abandoned. Like it belongs to another time.

I hover in the shadows, my shoes damp, jeans clinging to my legs. The street is quiet, except for the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. I’m not the only one out tonight, but it feels like I am.

The door to Zorba’s opens, just as I reach it. Light spills out in a soft amber glow, washing over the rain-dark sidewalk. A man exits, hoodie pulled low, a plastic bag dangling from his hand. He doesn’t look at me, just disappears into the mist. The door creaks slowly shut behind him, and my heart stutters. Last time comes rushing back. The taste of sweat and latex, her voice, her touch, the sharp edge of being seen.

I should go home. I should run.

But something in me is already pushing forward.

My hand meets the cold metal handle. I push it open. The bell overhead lets out a quick, high jingle; sharp, clear, like the sound cuts straight through the hum of the rain.

I step forward, my hand brushing the cold, damp door frame, and push it open.

Inside, it’s warmer than I remembered. Dry heat wraps around me like a blanket, almost too much after the chill of the rain. My sneakers squeak against the polished concrete floor, loud in the quiet space. A soft hum fills the background. The buzz of something low and electric.

I blink to adjust, taking in the scene. The store is busy enough for the hour, the lighting sharpens the edges of the worn-out shelves. A few people are scattered around, mostly in the back, looking at the toys. Their faces blur, their voices muffled under the low hum of music. It feels like a place where secrets are kept, and everyone here has one.

At the counter, the man flipped through a magazine, looking bored. His thick arms are crossed over his chest, a faded tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt. He’s got the same kind of casual indifference that seems to be a permanent fixture in this place. His hair’s a little too long, messy, like he doesn’t care enough to bother. His face is rough, not handsome, not ugly. His eyes catch mine for a second, and I can feel his gaze on me. There’s no real interest. Just a glance and then back to whatever he’s reading.

Above his head, that damn deflated sheep with the googly eyes still hangs there, bobbing gently with the air that passes through the shop. It’s an odd thing, always has been, but it’s part of Zorba’s charm, if you could call it that.

I almost turn away, but then I spot her.

She’s in the back near the shelf, moving slowly, pulling something off a rack. The same soft glow from the lights catches her hair, and I swear she looks up just as I do.

She’s dressed more casually tonight; a loose sweater in a pale mint green that looks almost out of place here. Her pants are black, but not the tight red latex ones from last time. These are simple, high-waisted, and tucked into a pair of scuffed boots that seem a little too big for her. It’s quirky, but not overtly sexual. Still, there’s something about the way she stands, the way she holds herself, that makes the air thicken around her.

___ 🐺 ___

I don't even think about the toy section. It's crowded tonight, customers picking through the racks, whispering softly as they look for something I don't want to know about. I move past them, hands tucked into my pockets, keeping my eyes on the floor, just letting my feet carry me.

The lingerie section smells different. It’s sweeter, like talcum powder and something faintly sugary. The racks are packed tight with delicate things: lace, mesh, silk, colors bleeding into each other under the low lights. Everything looks expensive, impractical, made only to be ripped off or worshiped.

There are corsets that could crush my ribs, satin bras so tiny they’re practically useless, crotchless panties held together by nothing but a few strings and a promise. A mannequin in the corner wears a leather harness over a mesh bodysuit, a blindfold slung around its neck like a scarf.

And then, from behind me, I hear her voice.

Inside, it’s dark but warm, the air thick with the heavy scent of rubber, latex, and something faintly sweet underneath it all. Somewhere overhead, hidden speakers thrum low with music. A slow, pulsing beat heavy on the bass. It sinks into my skin, matching the slow thud of my heartbeat, each beat dragging me deeper under.

Boom… Boom… Boom…

"Looking for something special?" she asks.

Her voice cuts through the haze, low and playful, but with a roughness underneath that makes my skin tighten.

I turn slowly, heart thudding with the bass, and there she is just a few feet away. Her pale green sweater hangs off one shoulder, showing a flash of smooth collarbone, casual but calculated. Her hair’s pulled back loose, with a few stubborn strands falling forward to frame her face. She doesn’t look like a predator tonight. She looks like the kind of trap you want to fall into.

She closes the distance without waiting for an answer, fingers trailing across the racks, brushing the hangers like she’s touching skin.

"This one’s very forgiving," she says, lifting a sheer black bra trimmed with the thinnest edge of red velvet. "Soft underwire. Perfect lift without the squeeze. Lets the body breathe..."

Boom… Boom…

She tilts her head slightly, giving me a small, knowing smile. "Shows off the best parts."

She winks as she says it, voice light but edged with something else, something that makes my stomach clench.

Before I can answer, she dips back into the rack and pulls free a matching thong; more air than fabric, black lace so fine it looks spun from smoke. My mouth goes dry.

"And these," she says, smiling now, "These are my favorite."

Boom… Boom…

She dangles the thong between two fingers, letting it sway. It’s then I see it: a tiny silver bell stitched right where the fabric splits at the crotch, the first gap in the lace. It's placed so that when someone wore it, the bell would nestle right against their clit, every step… every twitch… setting it swinging, ringing.

"No one will be able to forget you're wearing it," she adds, voice a little lower, a little rougher.

It jingles now as she tilts it back and forth, a sharp, clean sound that cuts through the heavy, stale air of the store. My cheeks burn. My thighs clench.

I don't trust myself to speak. I just nod, probably too quickly, and take the set from her hand.

She tips her head toward the back of the shop. "Fitting area’s back there," she says. "Knock yourself out."

I move in the direction she points, weaving past racks of leather corsets and thigh-high boots.

The “dressing room” is really just a forgotten corner of the store, a single cracked mirror leaning against the wall, a flimsy half-screen barely wide enough to hide behind. The screen’s fabric is faded and stained, more suggestion than barrier. Anyone who wanted to could see around it without even trying.

My heart kicks in my chest as I glance back. No one’s watching. Or maybe they are, and I'm just too scared to look.

The air feels heavier back here, thick with possibility, thick with memory.

I clutch the lingerie to my chest, breathing hard, feeling the silver bell press against my wrist through the fabric… silent for now, but waiting.

Waiting for me.

___ 🐺 ___

The mirror shows everything. Every flaw, every secret curve. My skin pebbles with goosebumps. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Somewhere deeper in the store, the music hums. A slow, syrupy, almost a sigh.  A bassline that doesn’t thump, but rolls, soft and heavy, like a lover’s breath against your neck.  It creeps under my skin, folding itself around the sharp edges of my nerves, smoothing them down until I’m left raw and open.

I set the lingerie down on the little stool beside me. The silver bell jingles once, sharp and clear against the background music.

My fingers tremble as I grab the hem of my top and pull it over my head. The rush of cool air across my bare breasts makes me flinch, and I instinctively wrap one arm across my chest. I hadn't bothered with a bra. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.

I hesitate, fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans.

I could still leave. I could put my shirt back on and walk right out.

But I don’t.

I unbutton the jeans slowly, the scrape of the metal loud in my ears, and shove them down my hips. I step out of them, careful, deliberate.

Now it's just me, standing there in a simple pair of panties, nothing fancy. Ordinary cotton, the kind of thing you don't think twice about.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror; bare shoulders, bare legs, arms folded across my chest like a shield. I look small. Vulnerable.

I hook my thumbs into the sides of my panties. Pause.

The idea of standing there completely naked, even for just a few seconds, makes my throat dry. But the memory of her smile, the way she held up the lingerie. Daring me.

I push the panties down. Step out of them. Now I'm naked.

Completely.

Somewhere deeper in the store, the music changes. Slow, syrupy, almost a sigh. A bassline that doesn’t thump, but rolls, soft and heavy, like a lover’s breath against your neck. It creeps under my skin, folding itself around the sharp edges of my nerves, smoothing them down until I’m left raw and open.

I reach for the bra first. The lace feels impossibly light, like spun sugar, fragile enough that I’m afraid I’ll tear it. I slip my arms through the straps and hook it behind my back with clumsy fingers.

The cups barely contain me. Just enough lace to hint, not hide. The satin ribbons tease across my skin, making me shiver.

The slow beat coils tighter, matching the hush of my breath against the mirror.

Then I pick up the thong. The bell swings gently as I lift it, the sound cutting through the thick, honeyed air.

I step into it carefully, pulling it up over my hips, feeling the lace stretch and settle. The open split parts perfectly as I move, leaving me exposed, trembling, the tiny bell resting right over my clit.

The cool metal kisses me. A spark.

I shift my weight. The bell chimes; soft, pure, almost innocent. It’s a cruel sound in a place like this.

I stare at myself. Almost naked. Shivering.

Boom, boom, boom. The slow music swallowed me whole. My heart is no longer hammering, just surrendering to whatever’s coming next.

Her voice sings out from somewhere just beyond the screen, light and casual, like this is any other boutique.

“Let’s have a look!”

I freeze.

The screen is useless. It’s too short, too narrow, a whisper of privacy already slipping away. My arms fly up instinctively. One crosses over my chest, the other dips low, trying to shield what I can. But it’s hopeless. The lace barely hides anything, and the bell chimes again with my movement. So cruel and bright.

I swallow hard, then push the screen aside.

She’s waiting just a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning against a rack of mesh bodysuits. Her eyes are on me, something flickers there, not hunger exactly, but interest. A slow, deliberate curiosity.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just lets her gaze roam, taking in the bra that clings like mist, the thong that leaves nothing to the imagination, and that little silver bell dancing between my thighs.

“Mmm,” she hums, tapping her lip with one finger. “Very flattering.”

She says it like a real sales clerk. Full of polite approval. But her eyes are too sharp. Too focused.

Then, as if struck with inspiration, she pushes off the rack. “Stay right there,” she says. “I’ve got an idea.”

Before I can answer, she disappears into the aisles, boots scuffing softly against the floor, vanishing between the shelves of latex and lace.

Boom, boom. boom…

And I just… stand there.

Frozen in place. Half-covered by my own awkward arms. The mirror still catching my reflection. The warm cold against my skin. The bell jingling softly when I breathe too hard.

Anyone could come back here. Any of the other customers.

But I don’t move. Not an inch.

___ 🐺 ___

She returns holding a small cardboard box, balanced casually on her hip like she’s stocking shelves.

I catch a glimpse as she gets closer. A few things jumbled inside: coils of ribbon, a sleek black bottle, something gleaming silver. But it’s what she pulls out first that tightens my chest.

A small, smooth egg. Sleek. Shiny. About the size of a plum.

She smiles, all friendly professionalism. Like she’s pitching a blender.

“This little guy’s a classic," she says, turning it over between two fingers. "Wireless. Waterproof. Three speeds, five patterns. Strong enough to make you forget your own name if you crank it high enough.”

The sales pitch tone should be cheesy. It should make me laugh. But the way she says it, like she already knows too much, makes my skin prickle.

She steps closer, holding the egg out for me to see, to touch if I want.

“You just tuck it in," she says, voice dropping slightly, "and the fun part?” She dangles a tiny remote from her other hand, clicking the buttons idly. The egg hums softly, vibrating against her palm. "You don't even have to lift a finger after that."

The hum seems impossibly loud in the little back corner. I shift, and the bell stitched between my thighs gives a sharp little chime.

My face burns.

She smiles wider, like she heard it, like the sound pleased her.

“No pressure,” she says, softer now, almost kind. “Just a little demonstration. You’re the customer, after all.”

She winks, dropping the egg lightly into my waiting palm. It’s warm from her touch.

And somehow, impossibly, it feels heavier than it should.

Before I can do more than stare down at the humming egg in my hand, she’s already fishing something else out of the box.

A small, slender bottle. Clear, with neat black lettering. She holds it up between two fingers like she’s showing off a prize.

“Enhance Clitoral Arousal Gel,” she says, flipping the label so I can read it. The brand— ON, is stamped clean across the front. "One of our best-sellers. All-natural. A few drops right where it counts, and you’ll swear the world got a little sharper."

Her voice is light, teasing, pure sales floor energy. But her eyes? Her eyes never leave my face.

She pops the cap. A sweet, spicy scent rises, peppermint, cinnamon, something else underneath. She tilts the bottle carefully and lets a small, glistening bead fall onto my open hand.

“Rub it in,” she says softly. “You’ll feel it start to tingle. Heat up. Just a taste.”

The gel is cool and slick against my skin. I rub my fingers together, and almost immediately, a slow warmth blooms between them. Not burning. Not painful. Just… more. Like my skin is suddenly awake, pulsing with every little beat of my heart.

She watches me closely, the corner of her mouth twitching in a barely-there smile.

“Imagine that," she murmurs, "but a little lower.”

The egg vibrates once in my hand, a tiny thrum, like it’s impatient. Like it knows where it belongs.

She doesn’t miss a beat, slipping right back into her easy, professional rhythm.

“Now,” she says, holding the bottle up again, “this is where the magic happens.”

With a little flick, she drizzles a thin line of the gel right onto the smooth curve of the egg. It glistens in the low light. “These two together?” She grins, a little wicked now. “A whole different experience. Trust me.”

I swallow hard.

Her voice softens, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “Turn around,” she says. “Hands on the chair.”

It’s not even a real chair. More like a battered, low stool shoved into the corner. For a second, I just stand there, the bell between my legs giving a sharp little jingle as I shift.

The sound is shocking. Bright. A reminder of the thong, the bare skin, how utterly exposed I really am.

I’d forgotten.

Heat rushes to my face, but my body is already moving, obeying without thinking. I bend over, placing my hands flat on the stool. Legs straight. Bent at the waist. My ass jutting out, helplessly offered.

The thin scrap of thong stretched uselessly between my cheeks does nothing to hide me. If anything, it frames me, splits me wide open. I can feel the slickness gathering, shame and need swirling together inside me until I’m trembling.

I hear her behind me. The soft click of the remote, the faint hum of the egg coming to life.

And then her steps, slow and deliberate, closing the distance.

The hum grows stronger as she steps behind me, closer.

I feel her fingers first, cool and firm, drawing the soaked thong open even more. The tiny bell jingles sharply again, traitorous, announcing every little movement.

Then the egg.

She drags it slowly up the slick folds of my pussy, letting the heated gel smear and mix with my own wetness.

The first touch makes me gasp. The humming vibration buzzing straight into me. She teases me cruelly, running the egg over the needy little clit, down and back again, never quite giving me enough.

“You’re already so ready,” she murmurs, half to herself, voice thick with approval.

I whimper, shifting my hips without meaning to, aching for more.

Finally, finally, she presses the tip of the egg against my entrance.

The sensation is electric. The buzzing, my wetness, the unbearable slow pressure.

She doesn’t shove it in. She works it in.

A slow, deliberate push, making me feel every shudder, every catch as my body struggles to take it. The gel makes it easy, but still, my body clenches instinctively. Trying to hold back, to resist.

She’s patient. Ruthless.

She rocks it, just a little, teasing the rim, letting my pussy lip try to swallow it. The feeling is maddening. And then, with a final, decisive push of her fingers, the egg slips in past the entrance.

My pussy closed in around it, trapping it deep inside.

Boom. Boom.

The music changes, or maybe I’m only just hearing it again. Slow. Deep. The kind of beat you don’t dance to, you sway with. Each bass note hits like a heartbeat, low and spaced out, thudding into my ribs and echoing between my legs. A tune hums just beneath it, twisting in and out of key.

There’s no clear melody. Just that pulse. That throb. The hum inside me catches it. Matches it. My body syncing up, nerve by nerve, twitch by twitch. Boom. Boom.

I’m bent open, on display. And this track? It’s not background music. It’s inside me.

Her fingers linger at the mouth of my pussy, pushing the egg higher, deeper, until I feel it settle against something tender and aching inside. I’m panting, bent over, helpless, clinging to the stool.

From my upside-down view between my spread legs, I catch a blur of movement; shoes scuffing, jeans, the flash of a skirt.

Some of the customers.

Walking closer. Boom. Boom. Lingering. Watching.

Her "sales pitch" had turned into a demonstration.

And I was the product.

I can hear them now. The shuffle of feet, the low murmur of voices.

I want to run, to cover myself, but I can’t seem to move. Then I hear her voice again, bright and professional.

“As you can see,” she says, tone light, “the egg is incredibly versatile. Small, powerful, discreet.”

Click.

A sudden surge. The vibration deep inside me jumps, sharp and immediate. My knees buckle a little. The bell jingles. I gasp, barely catching myself on the stool.

There’s a low chuckle from somewhere in the room. 

She keeps talking, utterly unfazed. “It has multiple modes… constant, pulse, escalating wave patterns.”

Click.

The steady hum inside me shifts. Now it’s pulsing, throbbing against my walls in cruel, aching bursts. Each pulse seems to tug something deeper, setting my nerves alight, pulling moans from me no matter how hard I try to hold them back.

“And the remote works up to thirty feet away,” she adds, her voice pure sales pitch. "Perfect for... adventurous outings.”

Click.

Another setting. Now the vibrations climb in a slow wave; up, up, up… then crash down all at once, leaving me shaking, desperate.

She steps closer. I see the edge of her boot beside me, casual, relaxed.

She angles the remote like she’s showing off a piece of jewelry. “It’s waterproof, of course,” she says, “and rechargeable. Very eco-friendly.”

More laughter. Someone moves closer.

The smell of latex, sweat, and perfume fills the cramped air around me.

And all I can do is stay bent over, the bell between my legs jingling with every shudder and twitch of my hips, exposed and trembling, as she puts me through my paces.

I don’t know how long she toys with the settings.

Minutes? Hours?

Time doesn’t exist anymore. Only the maddening, aching pull of pleasure spiraling tighter inside me.

The egg thrums deep in my core, building, building. I feel it happening. The rush gathering low in my belly, the helpless tightening of muscles, the whimper clawing up my throat.

Almost there…

Click.

The vibration dies down. I jolt, gasping, blinking tears of frustration.

She chuckles softly behind me. “Sensitive, aren’t we?” she says, like it’s an adorable character flaw.

Click.

A teasing purr this time, just enough to keep my body screaming for more, not enough to push me over. I rock my hips without meaning to, chasing it, desperate. 

Click.

Another pulse. Harder. Closer to breaking me.

“Once you get a woman squirming like this..." Her hand ghosts along my lower back, not touching, just hovering. "...she’ll do anything you ask."

A few of the watchers chuckle under their breath, dark and knowing.

I clench my fists tighter on the stool, trembling.

I’m panting now, every muscle strung tight, trapped between unbearable need and the cruel distance of release.

Click.

Another surge. Another crash just short of the peak. I hear the bell jingle sharply as I twitch and shift, the obscene little sound marking every desperate movement.

And all the while, she holds the remote in her hand like she's barely begun to show what it can really do.

She steps around to face me, crouching low so we’re almost eye to eye. Upside down from my bent-over position.

The remote dangles from her fingers, a lazy threat.

“Well?” she says, voice sweet and sharp at once. “Do you want to cum?”

The words slam into me harder than any vibration. The air feels thick. Every pair of eyes in the room pinned to me, waiting.

I whimper. A broken, desperate sound.

She tilts her head. Smirks.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She leans closer, her breath brushing against my cheek. “I didn’t hear you.”

Heat floods my face. Shame and need battling for dominance. I swallow, my voice ragged, trembling.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, please… I want to cum.”

The crowd shifts. Someone laughs lowly, darkly.

But she just smiles, wicked and slow, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Better,” she purrs. “But if you really mean it..."

She stands, looking around theatrically, as if addressing an invisible crowd. "...you’ll have to beg. Properly.”

I want to melt into the floor. But the egg hums low inside me, a cruel reminder that she holds everything I want in the palm of her hand. I close my eyes, shame burning my skin. My voice breaks out, louder this time.

“Please…” A sob. “Please let me cum... I need it... please...”

The room falls into a hush, every sound sticking to my skin.

Click.

The vibration kicks back on, but low. A cruel, teasing buzz.

Enough to keep me teetering with desperate furious arousal, but nowhere near enough to let me fall.

She taps the remote against her palm thoughtfully, a show for the watchers.

“We don’t just sell toys here,” she says brightly, almost laughing. “We sell... experiences.”

And I was living proof. Bent over, broken, and simmering, as they all watched and waited for what would happen next.

She steps away, back to the box she’d left by the shelf.

I whimper softly, shifting on my feet. The egg’s low hum still pulsing deep inside me, an unrelenting tease.

I lift my head slightly, trying to see. 

Something metallic flashes in her hand. She holds it up between two fingers, letting the overhead light catch on the polished surface.

"Now, these..." she says, slipping easily back into her sales voice. "...are one of our favorites. Not the toy store kind. These don’t break. They don’t bend. And once they’re on?"

The handcuffs gleam, heavy and real. Not the flimsy, pink-furred kind you find in gag stores. Solid. Serious.

She turns them slowly so everyone can see.

A pause. A smile.

“She won’t get out. Not without me.”

There’s a small ripple of approving murmurs from the onlookers. The cuffs pass from hand to hand, tested, weighed. Soft clicks as they open and close, a few mock restraints demonstrated with low chuckles.

I stay bent over, body thrumming, sweating, heart hammering.

The vibration inside me hasn't changed. It was still a slow, wicked simmer, but it’s doing something.

Building. Tightening. Setting a deep, constant ache at the base of my spine.

I bite my lip hard enough to leave a mark, struggling to stay quiet as the sensations coil tighter and tighter inside me.

My thighs tremble. My arms strain. The tiny bell at the crotch of my thong gives a sharp, cruel little jingle every time I twitch. A mocking reminder that I am completely, shamefully exposed.

She lets the cuffs make one last lazy circle through the small crowd before speaking again. Voice bright, like she was selling perfume or shoes.

“Why don’t you go ahead and help me with the demonstration?” she says, nodding toward the man currently holding them.

He looks a little surprised, but then grins, stepping forward. The cuffs dangle from one hand; the other flexes unconsciously at his side.

“Cuff her wrists behind her back for me,” she says smoothly. “Make sure she's nice and secure.”

I freeze.

He comes closer. Close enough that I can smell him; a mix of sweat and aftershave.

Rough hands grab my wrists, yanking them behind my back. I gasp. The jingle of the bell is sharp and cruel between my legs.

Snick… Snick...

The metal clicks shut around my wrists, cold and unforgiving. Not too tight. But tight enough to remind me who was in control.

Not me.

The egg inside me pulses again, a low, steady thrum that makes my knees shake.

“Good.” 

She steps closer, inspecting the cuffs. Tugs them gently, testing. I jolt under her touch, helpless. She turns to the man again, voice light, teasing.

“Oh… and since you’re right here..." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "...could you remove her bra for me?”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the small crowd.

My heart slams against my ribs as his hands fumble at my back. I’m bent double, naked except for the crotchless thong and the useless bra hanging on by a clasp.

A rough jerk and the clasp gives way. The bra falls to the floor.

The warm air of the store brushes over my bare skin, but it might as well be ice. My nipples tighten instantly, sharp and sudden, betraying me before I can even process the exposure.

It’s like my body is reacting without permission, tuned to every sensation. The sheer fabric of the bra had masked it, held it in. Now there’s nothing. Just me, bare, bound, and already aching.

I twitch on instinct, trying to shield myself, to cross my arms but the cuffs won’t budge. My wrists stay locked behind me, and the soft jingle of the chain and chime of the bell only makes it worse.

I’m on display. And my body loves it.

She claps her hands once, the sharp sound cutting through the humming tension in the room.

“Well now,” she says brightly, “since our model is ready..."

A mischievous sparkle dances in her eyes. "...let’s really show you just how powerful this little egg can be.”

A ripple of excitement rolls through the crowd. I hear a few low chuckles. A soft whistle.

It barely registers. I’m locked inside my own trembling body, the pulse of the toy deep inside me like a second heartbeat.

She taps a finger against her chin, pretending to think.

“This could get... messy,” she muses aloud, laughing lightly. “Hey… could you grab that foam mat for me?” she says, pointing to a stack against the wall.

“And you," she adds, turning to the man closest to me, "would you mind helping our young lady outside?”

I hear the words but they float past me, meaningless. A hand; rough and calloused grabs my arm. Another slides around my waist, pulling me upright.

My legs wobble dangerously, the sudden shift almost sending me sprawling. The egg’s steady hum inside me makes standing feel like balancing on a wire.

I stagger, leaning heavily against the man. My skin is burning, my nipples hard, the tiny bell at my clit giving cruel little jingles with every stumbling step.

___ 🐺 ___

The metal door groans open, and cool air brushes my skin like a whisper. Rain hits my bare chest in speckled drops, shocking at first, then welcome. It’s steady now. A little heavier than before. Not a storm, but insistent, like the night itself is paying attention.

The small lot out back is barely big enough for three cars, all of them parked tight against the edges. The overhead light flickers once, then steadies throwing everything into that strange, shadowed glow, like a stage without curtains.

She steps out beside me, calm as ever, like the rain doesn't touch her. Her pale green sweater has darkened where the water’s soaked in, clinging to her in places. Casual. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“Put it there,” she says, motioning with a lazy finger.

The man holding the foam mat hurries to the center of the lot. He slaps it down without ceremony, the rain already starting to dapple the surface in dark spots. Without a word, he turns and disappears back inside, shaking off his shoulders as he vanishes into the warmth.

I stand there in the doorway. Bare. Cuffed. The bell between my legs chiming softly with each shift of weight. The cold seeps up from the wet concrete through my feet, up my legs, all the way to my chest.

She’s still beside me. I can feel her heat, even if she’s not touching me yet.

She places a hand on my shoulder. Not rough, not commanding, just enough pressure. I kneel without thinking, the cold concrete biting into my knees, slick with a fine layer of rain that’s blown in past the door. I feel exposed, shivering but not from the cold.

She’s giving me a choice here. It’s unspoken, but real. She could force me. But she doesn’t.

She waits.

And somehow, in the beat between the bass and my heartbeat, I sink to my knees.

A breath. A surrender.

She lowers behind me. I feel her weight shift. The rustle of her clothes close to my ear.

Then something cold.

Snick...

A cuff locks around my right ankle. I gasp, but I don’t move.

She tugs at the chain binding my wrists behind my back, and with quiet efficiency, threads the new cuff through it, anchoring it, linking me tighter.

Snick...

It closes around my left ankle.

Now I’m folded back in on myself. My hands and feet bound together in a knot behind my ass. Vulnerable. Displayed. There’s no part of me I could cover even if I wanted to.

I should feel terrified. But I don’t. I feel held.

She stands. Straightens. Picks up an umbrella from just inside the door, the motion almost elegant. It snaps open with a soft thump as she steps out into the rain.

"Would you mind?" she says, glancing at the two men closest to her. Her voice is sweet, smooth, almost playful. "She can’t exactly crawl."

The men move quickly, without a word.

I’m lifted off the ground, the slick concrete sliding away beneath me, my body rocking gently between them. One has his hands under my knees, the other supporting my back. Their touches are not soft; not cruel, but firm. Hands used to weight.

They carry me out into the lot, the rain coming steady now, tapping against the umbrella over her head and drumming against the cars like a low, relentless beat.

Thrum thrum… thrum thrum…

The foam mat waits in the center. Damp. Darkened by the rain.

They lower me down carefully onto the foam mat, placing me on my back, not my stomach. My arms are still pinned behind me, wrists locked tight, my ankles drawn in and cuffed to the same chain. The position leaves my chest lifted, my hips tipped up, thighs parted just enough.

Open. Utterly exposed.

And I close my eyes. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m ready.

The rain drums louder now, pattering against the umbrella she holds and splashing across the lot in a steady rhythm. I can feel the cool air on every inch of my skin, and the tiny bell, still nestled against my clit, gives a soft, trembling chime as I shift, helpless.

The mat is damp beneath me. Not soaked, not cold, but enough that I feel it. Enough to make everything more real.

From the shelter of the overhang, the customers watch. Silent. Some wide-eyed. Others expressionless. But all of them see me. All of them know what’s coming.

And she, still dry from the waist up, circles me slowly, her feet splashing through shallow puddles, calm as ever. Her umbrella tilts slightly as she walks, giving her a clearer view. Her eyes roam over my body, and her mouth quirks into something unreadable.

Maybe approval. Or something more dangerous?

She steps in closer, planting her boots just beside my shoulders, rain dripping from the hem of her jeans. I can hear the water tapping against her umbrella, a steady, thrum thrum… thrum thrum… soft, almost soothing, at odds with the heat rising inside me.

She turns toward the row of onlookers, their silhouettes framed by the open doorway’s spill of golden light, and lifts her voice so they can all hear.

“Now,” she says, slow and almost sweet, “let’s see how long she lasts with it on maximum.” Her smile sharpens. “What do you think? Two minutes? Five? Will she scream or just melt?”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd. One man chuckles, nervous. Another shifts, adjusting himself. They don’t know where to look, my face, my chest, the soaked curve of my pussy.

She crouches beside my head, close now, her scent warm even in the damp air, something earthy. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a small brown glass bottle.

“You’re doing so well,” she says. “One more thing.”

I blink at it, confusion rising. My body’s already trembling, the egg still deep inside, my limbs bound in wet metal. My breathing is shallow. Am I scared? or ready?

She unscrews the cap, and the scent hits me sharp, chemical. Not unpleasant but heady, dizzying, dangerous.

“What is that?” I ask, or maybe just mouth. My voice barely makes it past my lips.

She leans closer, holding the bottle beneath my nose. “Just breathe in, sweet thing. Slow. Deep.”

My heart skips. I hesitate. This wasn’t part of anything we’d talked about. The air feels suddenly heavier than the rain, thicker than her gaze.

And yet… She hasn’t forced me. Hasn’t rushed me.

I nod. Just once.

Then I inhale.

Time warps. The rain becomes a soft hiss in the background, barely there and yet somehow part of everything. Cold beads tap against the concrete, and the umbrella above me catches the sound, turns it into a steady drumbeat, thrum thrum… thrum thrum… It feels like it’s syncing with the hum inside me; low, relentless, rising.

A sharp, sweet chemical scent hits me like a slap. It blooms in my chest and explodes behind my eyes. My thoughts scramble, every nerve lighting up, buzzing loud as a wire. My limbs twitch involuntarily.

First, it’s warm. A rushing heat through my chest and neck, then the buzz in my head. sharp, dizzying, like my thoughts have been kicked loose. My muscles go slack and tight at the same time, nerves stretching and pulsing like they don’t know which direction to fire. Everything smells too strong, feels too raw. Her scent, the rubber of the mat, the rain-damp air. It's all inside me. My lips part, slack, moaning before I know I’m doing it.

Click. Click.

The egg surges to life.

No warm-up. No warning. Just pure, thrumming power pulsing through my pussy like it’s trying to tear me apart from the inside out.

The bell goes wild, chiming again and again, tiny and cruel. Every sound ringing out into the wet, echoing lot like a call to attention.

My clit twitches with each jingle of the bell. My hips jerk up on their own. It’s not control anymore; it’s reaction. Desperation. A scream tears loose from my throat without warning, high and ragged, and I feel it echo in the base of my spine.

It’s unbearable. It’s perfect.

My hips jerk upward without my permission, the only movement my body can manage, desperate thrusts into the air, trying to get away from the pressure, or maybe closer to it. I’m not sure. The cuffs hold me tight, arms twisted behind me, ankles caught, my back arched like a bow.

I can feel them all watching.

I want to disappear. I want to come so hard I disappear.

The rain falls heavier now, steady sheets soaking the concrete around the mat, darkening it. A drop lands on my breast, then another on my cheek. Cold shocks that only make the fire inside burn hotter.

The vibrations are relentless. Deep. Ruthless.

My body is no longer mine. It’s hers. It’s theirs. It’s the egg’s.

And through it all, that cursed bell keeps singing. Clear. High. Mocking. Beautiful.

The orgasm doesn’t just build. It breaks!

It crashes down like lightning, splitting me open. My whole body locks, then thrashes, the cuffs rattling as my back arches off the mat. Wet heat gushes out of me, spraying across the plastic, across my thighs. I hear gasps, some shocked, some amused, but I can't see anything. My eyes are wide open, staring at nothing.

I’ve never squirted before.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s surrender. Raw and stripped bare, every part of me turned inside out. I'm loud. Louder than I thought I could be. I can feel it still pulsing out of me, my body caught in waves. One after another.

For a moment, there’s only the rain. The cool splash of it just beyond the reach of the umbrella. The scent of sex heavy in the air.

And her hand, steady, resting lightly on my belly. Possessive. Calm. Like she knew this would happen. Like she’s done this before.

But I haven’t. And I can’t believe what I just did.

"Good girl," she purrs. "You did so good."

___ 🐺 ___

I didn't even notice the handcuffs unlocking at first. Just her touch. Cool fingers brushing my wrists, a shock against my burning skin. The rain is still falling, heavier now, the drops hitting the edge of the umbrella above us in a soft, steady rhythm. Like a lullaby after a storm.

thrum thrum… thrum… thrum thrum…

Time has gone soft around the edges. Slippery. I don’t know how long I was lying there. A few minutes? An hour? The lot is quiet. Empty. The faces, the eyes, the quiet gasps, all gone. Melted back into the shadows or slipped inside while I was lost in whatever just tore me apart.

Only she remains, her breath steady beside me, her presence a constant in a world that won’t stop spinning.

"Easy now," she murmurs, voice a low purr that vibrates straight down my spine.

Snick... One cuff slips free. Snick... Then the next.

My arms fall limply to my sides. Useless. Shaking. My whole body hums, twitching with aftershocks, the foam mat slick beneath me, the bell between my legs still twitching faintly with every breath I take.

She moves behind me, the soft brush of her sweater damp against my bare back as she lifts me upright. Strong hands. Steady. The rain catches in her hair, darkening the loose strands curling around her face.

I blink up at her, vision swimming under the halo of the single overhead light. Water streaks across my cheeks. Rain, sweat, tears, I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.

And something inside me cracks open just a little wider.

What did I just do?

I try to piece it together; the cold metal, the jingle, the sound I made when it started, when she crouched beside me. The scent of that bottle still lingers in the back of my nose, sharp and chemical. My body answered before I could think. It didn’t ask permission. It just was. Wild. Raw. Honest.

I can still feel the echo of it. Like the moment before a storm hits, the charged stillness. My thighs sticky despite the rain. My pulse everywhere. There’s a part of me that wants to fold in on itself, to hide. But another part… a deeper part… is holding me still. Holding me open.

She’s still looking at me. Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Maybe she does.

She smiles. Soft. Sweet. Sinister.

"You were beautiful," she says, brushing wet hair from my forehead with the back of her fingers. Her knuckles are cool, tender.. "You gave them a hell of a show, sweet thing. Look at you."

I whimper wordless. I feel raw. And she laughs, low and warm, like I just told her a joke she’s been waiting to hear.

She lifts my chin with a single finger, tilting my face up to hers. Rain drips from her elbow as she does, sliding down her wrist, cool against my throat.

"You did exactly what I wanted," she says. Her eyes burn with something too big for me to name. "You trusted me."

And I did. God, I did.

Her thumb strokes along my jaw, slow, lingering. I lean into it without meaning to.

"And see?" she purrs, her voice dropping even lower, almost conspiratorial. "It felt good, didn’t it? Letting go like that. Giving yourself over."

I nod. A jerky, desperate little movement.

"Say it," she whispers.

My voice cracks, rough as gravel. "It felt good."

Her smile widens, flashing teeth. Not cruel. Just... knowing.

"Of course it did," she purrs, leaning closer, her breath warm against my ear. "Because you're meant for this. You just needed a little help to remember."

Raindrops patter steadily around us, soft against the metal awning above the door, louder on the asphalt just beyond. The sound is everywhere, like the night itself is pressing in to keep our secret.

She pulls back, eyes searching mine. She’s pleased by whatever she sees there.

"Good girl," she says again, softer this time. "My good, messy girl."

Water beads in her hair and clings to the hem of her sweater, the damp fabric outlining the curves beneath. My skin shivers as much from the cold as from her presence.

She helps me sit up, her grip firm around my waist. As she pulls me to my feet, her fingers flick the little silver bell resting against my clit. Sharp and sudden.

The jingle cuts through the rainy night air like a spark.

Before I can even gasp, her fingers drift lower. They slip between my pussy lips, slow and deliberate, gathering the slickness she caused, teasing along the sensitive inside.

A shudder tears through me, my legs trembling under the touch.

She laughs softly and casually brings her glistening fingers to her lips. Tasting me. Tasting what I became out here.

Her eyes flicker with something darker as she sucks the sweetness from her fingers. 'Perfect,' she murmurs softly, almost to herself. Her gaze lingers, like she’s savoring the moment, before she pulls away with a faint, satisfied smile.

The parking lot is empty now. The crowd that once circled me, hungry, had already drifted back inside like ghosts in the rain. No applause. No farewell. Just the sound of the storm and the echo of my own breath.

Only the distant cha-ching of the register breaks the hush, a sharp, metallic reminder that the world kept spinning. That my little scene wasn’t the end. Just another night at Zorba’s.

I stumble as she tugs me gently toward the door, her hand warm at the small of my back.

"Come on, sweet thing," she murmurs, amusement curling through her voice. "You earned yourself a little reward."

The bell gives a soft, traitorous jingle with every step I take, drowned now and then by the rhythm of falling rain. A tiny, humiliating soundtrack to my dripping, marked body as we cross back through the threshold.

___ 🐺 ___

The door swings shut behind us with a low, echoing thud. The bright lights inside hit me like a slap after the dim wash of the parking lot. Everything feels too exposed now. Too real.

Water runs in rivulets down my body. My hair clings to my cheeks and neck, heavy with rain. Droplets fall from my arms, my nipples, my belly, mixing with the wet glistening from my pussy that definitely isn’t rain.

She guides me back toward the dressing area, unhurried. Calm. Like we hadn’t just turned me into a panting, dripping, shaking mess under the stormy sky. On the way, she grabs a packet of paper towels off a low shelf. Efficient. Thoughtful. Like this was always part of the plan.

Click.

The egg inside me hums to life again without warning. A sharp pulse of vibration that rips a whimper straight from my throat. My knees buckle slightly, the sound of my soaked feet squealing under me as I try to stay upright.

Click.

It stops. Her laughter comes low and warm from in front me. "Forgetting something, are we?" she teases, mock disappointment curling at the edges of her voice.

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes. Just breath. Just need.

She steps in close, crouching beside me. I can feel the wet press of her jeans as they brush against my bare thigh.

Then her fingers are between my legs, casually parting my pussy lips like she’s done it a hundred times. The egg is still nestled deep inside. It takes a second… a soft tug… then a twist that makes my whole body jolt.

It slips out of me with a wet, obscene sound. Schlick. The sudden absence leaves me aching, empty, exposed all over again.

"There we go," she murmurs, lifting it in front of my face like a prize. Under the fluorescent lights, it gleams with a mix of rainwater and the mess she coaxed from me.

She peels a paper towel from the roll and starts cleaning me, between my thighs, the insides of my legs. Slow and thorough. Each pass of the rough cloth makes me twitch. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. There’s no shame in her movements, only care. Only possession.

Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to clean a girl up after wrecking her in the rain.

"Let's get you dressed," she says, tossing the wet rag into a nearby bin without ceremony.

I reach for my top, fingers trembling as I gather the soft, damp fabric. It clings in places from the rain, sliding awkwardly over my skin as I pull it down. She doesn’t move. Just watches me with that same sharp, amused gaze that sees far too much.

"What did your bra look like?" she asks, voice all innocent curiosity.

I freeze, the shirt halfway on, my hair still dripping, my nipples tight and obvious beneath the thin fabric. My cheeks flame hot.

"I... I didn’t wear one," I mumble, not quite able to meet her eyes.

Her smile curls, slow and dark. "Oh, really?" she hums, stepping closer. “Apparently you didn’t bring panties either.”

I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. The words tangle and dissolve, useless.

She leans in, her breath brushing the shell of my ear, warm and devastating.

"No wonder you were looking for lingerie, sweetheart," she purrs, each word wrapping around me like a leash. There’s something sharper underneath. Mocking, affectionate, in complete control.

The bell still jingles softly at my hips, a cruel reminder of how exposed I still am.

"Nick!" she calls out, sharp enough to make me flinch.

There’s a pause. It’s long enough to stretch the silence. Finally he ambles into view from somewhere deep behind the shelves.

Same guy from when I walked in. Rough around the edges. That too-small polo still clings to his thick frame, the collar permanently wilted. His tattoos crawl down his arms like overgrown ivy. He slouches closer, wiping his hands on a rag so stained it probably made things dirtier.

"Yeah?" he grunts, his eyes dragging lazily between us. Me, half-dressed and dripping, and her, calm and unshaken.

Without missing a beat, she extends the slick little egg in her hand.

"Can you clean this up and repackage it for the young lady?" she asks, voice dipped in honey.

Nick snorts, taking the toy between two fingers like he’s done it a thousand times. He turns it slowly in the light, cocking an eyebrow.

"Shit," he mutters with a crooked grin, “if it was me, you’d have cum in five minutes, not two god damn hours.”

The heat in my face explodes. I stare at the scuffed floor. Or maybe the sad little sheep hanging overhead, its googly eyes still watching. Anywhere but at him.

She just laughs, dark and low, and pats my cheek like I'm her obedient little pet.

"Patience is a virtue, Nick," she purrs. “And she’s learning.”

Nick grumbles something under his breath as he turns, egg dangling from his hand like a trophy won in some filthy contest. The toy swings once before he disappears back into the gloom.

I stand there, soaked and trembling, clutching my top closed with both hands. The silver bell at my hips gives a quiet chime every time I shift my weight. A small, cruel reminders that I’m still bare beneath the thin fabric. Still exposed.

Her hand doesn’t leave me. Fingertips resting lightly at my hip, playing with the bell, dragging slow circles along the skin just above where I’m raw and sore and still somehow aching for more. Her touch is maddening, not rough, not even possessive, just casual. Like this is normal. Like I’m hers to toy with whenever the mood strikes.

The humiliation simmers inside me, but it's tangled up with something darker, hotter. Need? Pride? I don’t even know anymore. I’m dizzy with it, nerves frayed and humming.

"Nick," she calls again, her voice lower now. Almost teasing. "Pick something out for her to wear home."

I don’t move. Can’t. The air is thick, the store too bright, my skin too bare.

Nick looks up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Me?”

She nods, and there’s that smile again. The one that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. To him. To me.

“Nothing humiliating,” she adds with a mock sweetness, just before her finger flicks the bell dangling between my legs. The sudden sting makes me gasp, my knees threatening to buckle.

She leans in, her breath brushing my ear. “Something daring. She’s earned it.”

Nick disappears into the cluttered racks with a low grunt, muttering something about "size and attitude." I can hear hangers clacking, plastic crinkling, the low thump of a box being kicked open. I stand frozen. Every part of me prickling; wet, exposed, waiting.

I’m still trembling, clutching my top closed, the damp fabric clinging to my arms. Everything feels too bright in here. Too loud. The soft whine of the overhead fluorescents, the squelch of my boots on the concrete floor, the quiet jingle that still betrays every movement between my thighs. I don't even try to stop it anymore.

She stays close. Her palm warm on my lower back, grounding me. I feel the rise and fall of her breath more than I hear it. She smells like rain and leather and the faintest trace of something chemical, like the popper still clings to the air around her.

Nick returns with a small bundle. He doesn’t offer it to me. He gives it to her.

“Your size?” he asks, and the smirk in his voice makes it clear he already knows the answer.

"Close enough," she replies, and inspects the pieces like a curator.

She turns back to me, holding them up one at a time.

“Look,” she murmurs, her voice low and coaxing. “Your very own little care package.”

The first thing she shows me is the egg. Clean now. Silent. Its surface glistens faintly in the overhead light.

“Yours to keep,” she says, slipping it into a small satin pouch.

Next comes a tiny tube of arousal gel. “Try this when you’re ready,” she adds. “But maybe not if you have plans to go anywhere after.”

And finally: the panties. Just like the ones I’m still wearing, but now in a soft plum color, deep and lush. Crotchless. A tiny silver bell dangles from the front again, glinting with wicked familiarity.

“These,” she says, holding them up by one delicate hip strap, “are yours now.”

I stare at them. A new pair. Clean. Untouched. But just as exposed, just as wrong in all the ways that make my skin heat with shame and something sharper underneath.

She tucks them into the same pouch, then leans in and whispers, “I’m keeping the ones from tonight.”

I flush hot. My legs shift. The bell chimes.

She doesn’t let go of the moment. She just smiles and presses the pouch into my hands and curls my fingers around it.

"A souvenir," she says. “You’ve earned it.”

And something in me, still shivering, still sore, still soaked to the bone, finally gives in and nods.