Baker's Boy

Welcome! This is a F/m story set in a fantasy Victorian-inspired world. I ran out of space in the tags, so here is a complete list of what to expect: including bondage, nipple clamps, edging, flogging, facesitting, oral, handjobs, prostate stimulation, tit sucking, and aftercare. This is my first time writing in this particular category, so please let me know if you liked it or what I can improve!

***

"You still pursue this... this tawdry little sideline?"

Nessa swirled the wine in her glass and watched the candlelight turn play across it. Across the room, Master Halvern stood with both hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes. His mouth tightened.

"Tawdry, Halvern? Lucrative is the word I'd use." She responded. "It certainly pays for the wine you're currently drinking."

"You know what I mean. It's undignified," he sniffed. "A graduate of our institution, catering to the baser urges of wealthy merchants and bored nobles. "If the Council knew--"

"The council knows."

A faint, sharp smile touched Nessa's lips. The Council knows, and they said much the same as you do, Halvern, right before they booked their own appointments...

She'd had the Chancellor himself whimpering on his knees last winter, begging for the touch of her crop. The Head of Transmutation preferred ice. They all had their 'baser urges', and they all paid handsomely for the privilege of indulging them with someone who possessed not only the inclination, but the spell-casting ability to make their fantasies real.

"Halvern, are you ready to get on with the reason you came here?"

The mage sputtered, cheeks flushing a deep, unflattering red. "I-that is to say-I merely wished to catch up with a promising former student."

"Yes, of course." She saidl. "But, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to prepare for. Unless, of course, you've come to book one yourself?"

"Outrageous!" Halvern blustered, then he paused, his gaze lingering on her gloves. "What exactly... what do you do?"

She looked at him over the rim of her glass.

"Magic, of course... just not the sort they teach at the Academy."

As she showed him to the door, she couldn't help but smirk at his receding figure.

He'd be back. They always came back.

***

15 buns. 5 cinnamon. 5 almond. 5 poppyseed.

Henry counted them twice as he slid the last tray from the oven.

Heat rolled over him. The bakery was always hottest at night, when the ovens had been burning for hours and the walls seemed to hold every degree of it. He hardly felt it anymore, despite three ovens firing away. He'd been born there, after all, in the little back room. The smells of cinnamon, yeast, and butter were as natural as anything to him.

"Almost done?"

His father's voice came from the doorway. Henry looked up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a floury wrist.

"Done."

He was already moving to pack the buns into their warm, paper-wrapped bundles.

"Last one's up in the Eaves," his father said. "Don't linger."

"I won't."

"Rich folk."

"I know."

"Poor tippers."

"I know."

He handed Henry the delivery slip. At the bottom, beneath the address, was a neat line of handwriting:

Please deliver before the storm.

Henry glanced out the small window. Beyond the fogged glass, the evening sky had already gone the color of a fresh bruise.

"Bit late for that."

His father was already shuffling away. "You'd better hurry." Henry watched him go, noting the stoop in the old man's shoulders, the limp in his step which had not improved.

Henry tucked the slip into his pocket and finished packaging the deliveries. He loaded the basket carefully, arranging the bundles so the cinnamon buns wouldn't crush the almond ones. The paper was already growing translucent with butter.

The instant he stepped outside, the heat of the bakery fell away. Cool night air rushed over his face. The smell of rain.

It would be a wet night. He figured he had enough time to make it there before the storm, but likely not enough to make it back -- he knew the city well enough, and his long-legged stride would make up the rest of the time.

He took off at a quick pace. Just as he'd predicted, he made it to the Eaves with only seconds to spare, as the clouds let out a heavy sigh and rain began to fall.

He'd never had a delivery up this high before. The Eaves, as his father called them, were an area of the city reserved almost exclusively for magic-users and the obscenely wealthy. Henry didn't see much of a difference between the two -- he'd never seen magic feed a hungry family, but he'd seen a gold coin do the trick.

Immediately, he felt as though he had stepped into another world. Gone were the grimy cobblestones and the familiar smells of smoke and wet straw. Here, the paths were smooth, pale stone, and the rain seemed to fall quieter upon it. His way was lit by soft, golden light from floating lanterns. He reached up to touch one as he passed, expecting to find a thin, nearly invisible chain suspending it, but there was only empty air.

He found the building easily enough. Elegant white stone and marble, decorated by curling vines and flowers that seemed to glow in the night.

There was no doorhandle.

That was strange, but stranger still was the door itself, which opened itself before he could even raise a hand to knock.

Henry stepped inside, dripping water onto a polished floor. He was immediately overwhelmed by the vast space, with its tapestries of gold, purple, and deep crimson on the walls and furniture he didn't even know the name of. He hardly registered any of it, his attention caught within seconds by the woman standing a few feet away.

She was half-elven. That, he knew from her pointed ears and the delicate structure of her face. Her long, silver hair was braided through with faerie chain.

But the rest of her was pure human softness, and it was on full display. His eyes were immediately drawn to her breasts, which were barely contained by a white leather corset, laced up tight. She wore little else save for a pair of matching white gloves that came up past her elbows, and thigh-high stockings held up to her panties by lacy garters.

"Delivery," he managed.

***

Well, that was new.

Nessa had never had a client show up in such a state of disarray. Sure, many of her clientele enjoyed a little role-play, but this was unusually convincing, even for an appointment which had specifically requested it.

The details of his costume were exquisite. A baker, how charming. The sandy-haired man who stood in her doorway, a basket of buns clutched in one large hand, was positively soaked from the rain. The parts of him that were not wet were charmingly floured, with dustings of white on his cheeks and a smudge on the bridge of his nose. And he was... broad. Muscular. Not in the fussy way that sculptors chiseled their muses, but in a solid, functional way.

He stood still for a moment, as if rooted to the spot. "I have a delivery," he repeated, a little more firmly this time. His cheeks were flushed. Whether it was exertion or embarrassment, she couldn't tell.

"Then you'd best come in," she responded smoothly. "You're dripping all over my floor. Take off your coat."

This time, he did seem embarrassed. "I'm really just here to..."

"Put the basket on the table over there."

He did as he was told, with an awkward, confused sort of obedience. Underneath the sodden coat, he wore a white linen shirt which clung to the broad planes of his chest and shoulders -- she had half a mind to ask him to remove that, too. Simple brown suspenders criss-crossed at his back. She watched the muscles in his arms as he relieved himself of the bread basket in the manner that she'd instructed.

"You're early."

He blinked at her, a little dazedly. "I'm sorry. I was trying to make it here before the storm, but the rain came on fast."

"Normally I don't appreciate my appointments showing up before I'm ready," she said. She circled him slowly, taking in more details. His eyes were a pale, summery blue, and he was unshaven. The stubble on his jaw gave him a ruggedness that she liked. "But I'll make an exception."

She came to a stop in front of him. He was tall enough that she had to crane her neck, just a little, to look him in the eye.

For a moment, he seemed lost for words, then he said, "I was told to deliver this letter."

He reached into the basket and pulled out a sealed envelope, extending it to her. She recognized the seal on the wax instantly, the same sparrow that had been on the order form for this particular client. Very secretive, preferring to communicate through third parties. She took the letter from him and broke the seal.

Mistress Nessa, it read, in his familiar, looping script. My apologies, but something has come up and I must postpone our first session. I've paid in full, of course, and I'll be in touch to reschedule. Please enjoy the pastries I sent along. A token of my regret. Sir Darian.

Well, that explained a great deal. And it was, she thought, a rather tremendous shame.

She couldn't help the small smile that played on her lips as she turned back to the man, who stood in her entryway, patiently waiting. An actual baker, then, not just someone pretending to be one. She folded the letter neatly and set it back on the table beside the bread.

"What's your name?"

"Henry."

"My name is Nessa, but you may address me as 'Mistress'," she said, "Have you ever been tied up before, Henry?"

She enjoyed the blush that bloomed across his cheeks. He looked utterly bewildered as he responded, "N-no, Mistress."

"Do you think you would enjoy that experience?"

This was, perhaps, a little cruel, given that he was not, in fact, one of her clients. She was toying with him. But it was in her nature to play with her food and she was now in possession of a free evening, after all...

"I'm... not sure. I would think so."

"Good answer. I appreciate honesty." She smiled faintly. "If you'd like to find out, walk down that hall and through the door at the end. Wait for me there, on your knees."

Her gaze flicked toward the buns on the table.

"Otherwise, you may consider your delivery complete."

Henry stared down the hall, then back at her, as though trying to piece together the sequence of events that had led him to this moment. His common sense, she suspected, was at war with his confusion, and yet there was no denying the flicker of something else in his eyes. Curiosity. A hint of intrigue.

He glanced at the basket of buns one last time, as if seeking guidance from its humble contents. Finding none, he looked back at her, a nervous swallow moving the column of his throat. "The bread is still warm--," he started, then seemed to think better of it.

"Then you had best be quick about it, hadn't you?" she said with a wry smile.

"Yes, Mistress."

The way he said it -- a little uncertain, a little clumsy -- was more compelling than the practiced submission of her usual clients.

As Henry turned and walked down the hall, Nessa decided that this would be a welcome twist to her evening, indeed. She heard the door at the end of the hall open, then the soft thud as it closed.

***

The room was dark, save for a single, pulsing light in the center.

Henry had never seen a lamp that could do that -- it was a ball of pure, soft light that drifted a few feet from the floor, illuminating a rug the color of spilled wine. Most of the space was steeped in shadow, though he could make out the shapes of furniture. A four-poster bed. Some sort of cushioned bench. A strange-looking table with leather straps at each corner.

Along one wall, there was a collection of tools. Some were sleek and made of polished wood, others were braided from leather, and some were metal, glinting in the dim light. They were not tools for making bread or mending a roof. They were tools for... something sinister. He admired the craftsmanship, even if he wasn't sure of the purpose.

This woman, Nessa, was unlike anyone he had ever met.

He'd heard whispers of her kind, of course, those who dealt in pleasures and pains outside the bounds of common decency. He'd never imagined them to be so beautiful, or so intimidating. He'd also never imagined himself to be in a position where he would find himself in her lair.

He went to the rug, lowering himself to his knees as instructed. It was a strange, humbling position.

As he waited, the pulsing light washed over him in slow, steady waves. With each wave, a new part of the room emerged from the darkness into greater relief. With each retreat, it was swallowed again. He saw that the bed was vast, with dark, shimmering sheets. The bench covered in black velvet. The table with the straps... it was the sort of thing he'd expect to find in a torturer's chamber, adjustable in both height and angle.

His eyes kept returning to the table with the straps. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be tied to it, to be at the mercy of someone like her. He pictured her standing over him, her gloved hands exploring him, her breath on his neck. And then, maybe, she'd use one of those tools on him... a soft, leather one, hopefully.

A soft click. The door opened and Nessa stood in the doorway. The light caught the silver of her hair and the delicate points of her ears. She moved into the room with a fluid grace that was almost cat-like.

He was struck again by her beauty. The corset accentuated her narrow waist, which fluted into the generous curve of her hips. Her long, lean legs were encased in those white stockings, held up by garters that bit gently into the soft skin of her thighs. Her breasts were nearly spilling out of her corset, the soft globes begging to be touched. He wanted, more than anything, to feel the weight of them in his hands, to take a nipple into his mouth. But he knew better than to move.

She waved absentmindedly at the floating lamp. "A little brighter, I think."

The orb flared, casting the room in a much clearer, though still soft, purplish light. Now he could see the true richness of the velvet, the deep grain of the dark wood furniture, and the wicked sharp tips of her metal tools.

"Much better." Nessa stopped in front of him.

Almost immediately, he felt a cool, smooth presence wrap around his wrists and bind them behind his back. He jolted in surprise, twisting to look at his hands. There was nothing there, but he could feel it all the same -- a tight, unyielding pressure. He tested it; he couldn't budge an inch.

"How did you do that?!"

"It's a simple binding spell," she said dismissively. "Not as much fun as rope, but so much more efficient. Don't you think?" She curled her fingers in the air and his chin was nudged up towards her as if she had tugged it with the tip of one of her white-gloved fingers. "Ah, ah. Look at me, Henry."

He did, stunned speechless at the casual display of power. She was like a goddess of old legends, toying with mortals for sport.

His voice was rough when he found it again. "You're a sorceress."

"A very good one," she agreed. "Now, let's have a proper look at you."

She took her time selecting a thin, polished rod of dark wood from the wall. When she touched it to his skin, he flinched. It vibrated ever so slightly, humming with a low, magical energy. She used it to nudged his shoulders apart, forcing him to straighten his posture. She traced the line of his jaw with the very tip, then down the muscle of his neck. She prodded at his chest, just hard enough for him to feel the pressure through his shirt. Her touch left goosebumps in its wake.

His cock, already stirring, now grew fully hard, wishing for her to inspect him there, too, even if it was with that implement and not her hands.

"You're strong," she mused, more to herself than to him. "Good. This will be more fun that way." She tapped the rod lightly against his bicep. "You can stand up."

He obeyed, the movement awkward with his wrists magically bound as they were. He rose, stumbling slightly.

She continued her inspection with the rod, prodding at the muscles of his back, then traveling the swell of his ass and giving it a firm swat that made him jump. This, she seemed to enjoy. Then the rod was moving again, tracing the seam of his trousers. He couldn't stop the ragged exhale that escaped him as she dragged it over the straining fabric between his legs. Too quickly, it was gone.

"Someone's eager."

"I'm sorry," he said, and then frowned at his own apology. He wasn't sorry at all.

She ignored it. With a flick of her fingers, the buttons on his shirt popped open, one by one, from collar to hem. The shirt hung open. This was followed by a subtle twist of her wrist, and the shirt was whipped away from him entirely. She snapped her fingers and it landed in a neat pile on the shelf. But she wasn't done. Another movement from her, and the suspenders fell from his shoulders.

A final snap, and he was naked.

The efficiency of her magic was as terrifying as it was arousing. He stood before her, bare and exposed. His cock stood at attention and she practically licked her lips at the sight.

"My, my," she said. "You're going to be a fun toy."

"Will you... touch me now?" he asked, hopefully.

"Mistress," she corrected, a warning in her tone.

"Will you touch me, Mistress?"

"I haven't decided yet." She nudged the rod into the cleft between his pecs and pushed him back. He stumbled a few paces, landing with a soft thud on the velvet bench. "Do you think you deserve to be touched, Henry?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

"I've done everything you've asked."

"Doing the bare minimum doesn't earn you a reward. It earns you the absence of punishment."

"Then... how do I earn a reward?"

Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Good question."

She turned away from him, walking over to the wall of instruments. Her hips swaying with elven grace, surefooted and light. She selected a pair of what looked like small, silver pincers, each tipped with a small, dark pearl. She dangled them from her fingers, letting them swing like a pendulum. He watched, mesmerized.

"These," she said, "Are called pearls of regret. They're enchanted. The pressure they exert grows the more aroused their wearer becomes. So the more you enjoy yourself, the more they'll bite. Do you understand?"

He nodded, his eyes still following their movement.

"Words, Henry."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good." She stepped closer. "Now, let's see how much you're enjoying yourself."

She leaned in, the warm scent of her -- like some expensive night-blooming flower -- filling his senses. For a breathtaking moment, the soft warmth of her breasts nearly brushed him. He could feel her breath. He was so focused on the possibility of that fleeting contact that he didn't even register the cool click of the first clamp on his nipple. She deftly attached the second, and mercifully, the ache was only a dull throb. A gentle warning. That was, until she pulled on the chain connecting them.

A startling bite of pain shot through him. It was a sharp, exquisite sensation that seemed to travel directly to the root of him. His cock jumped in response, and the pearls on the clamps tightened, as promised. He couldn't hold back a choked gasp.

Nessa released the chain. She watched him wrestle with the alternating sensations. "Does that hurt?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Do you want me to take them off?"

He hesitated. He was so hard it was almost painful, even without the effects of the pearls. But he knew, with a sudden, horrifying clarity, that he did not want her to stop. He wanted more.

"No, Mistress."

"No, I didn't think so."

She took her time watching him, her gaze traveling down the length of him in. When her eyes landed on his cock, a faint, satisfied smile touched her lips. She had gotten what she wanted. She seemed to be considering her next move.

He wondered if she would like him to serve her with his tongue. Was that something he was expected to do? He could do that. He would enjoy it. He had done it before, he had even been told he was good at it. Good with his tongue... Good with his hands...

He was already imagining the taste of her, the way she would feel--

"I could please you, Mistress," he offered.

She stared at him, then arched an eyebrow. Had he misread the situation?

"Oh? And what makes you think I'd enjoy the clumsy affections of some baker's boy?"

"It would not be clumsy--" he started, defensively.

His words were cut off by another tug on the chain.

"Impertinent thing," she said, though he heard a note of amusement in her voice. "If I want you to use your tongue, I will tell you to use it. And I will tell you how. Where. And for how long. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good."

As she scrutinized him, her fingers trailed the black tool she still held in her other hand. She tapped it thoughtfully against her thigh. He followed the movements, completely and utterly transfixed. Those white gloves... the pearl-white stockings... that perfect body... all of it was designed to unravel him. And it was working.

"You're half-elven, aren't you?" he asked.

"Did I say you could speak?" she said sharply, and then more curiously, "Does the thought of my mixed blood excite you?"

"Everything about you excites me, Mistress."

A genuine smile escaped her, just for a moment. Then the rod in her hand was extending.

It flattened, widened, and the whole implement became something else entirely. The many strands of dark leather made a soft whistling sound as she gave it a little swing. A shiver ran down his spine. The thought of it sent a fresh surge of arousal through him, and the pearls tightened, in a delicious, painful counterpoint.

He was still sitting on the bench, bound, erect, and clad in her decorations. He closed his eyes as she stepped closer, bracing himself for the first strike. But it didn't come. Instead, he felt the soft touch of the leather strands as she dragged them across his chest. They tickled. They teased. They promised a pain that had not yet arrived. The light touch was a greater torment than the strike would be.

Then it came. A sharp, stinging smack against the inside of his thigh. It wasn't as bad as he'd expected. And yet, the sound of it... the impact... the heat... it all sent a jolt straight to the pearled clamps. He grunted.

"Another?" she asked.

Yes. He needed another.

He could only nod, suddenly unable to find his voice.

With a twist of her fingers, his legs were nudged apart. And then another strike, this one on the other thigh. A little harder this time. He was beginning to understand the rhythm of this. The more she struck him, the more aroused he became. The more aroused he became, the more it hurt. A feedback loop of exquisite agony.

Another. And another. Each one a little lower than the last, inching toward that most sensitive part of him. Each one a little more intense than the one before it.

She paused, her chest rising and falling, her breath a little quicker than before. She was standing over him, her skin flushed, her pupils magnified to dark pools. The sight of her like that, so openly aroused by his torment, was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. And the pearls responded in kind, torturing him with renewed viciousness. He couldn't stop the low moan that escaped him.

The leather flogger traced the line of his jaw. Then, slowly, she moved it downwards, ghosting it over his throat, his chest. Over the taut chain that connected the clamps. Over the straining muscles of his stomach. He hardly heard the whistle of air as she lifted it again and landed an agonizing strike directly on his straining cock. The clamps bit down with savage force and his world went white for a moment.

When he came back to himself, he was gasping for breath. His cock jumped.

"Look at you," she murmured. "Leaking for me. Silly boy."

She was right. A single bead of pearly liquid welled at the tip of his cock. He'd never been so hard in his life. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to touch himself, to stroke himself to completion, anything to get some relief.

His heart gave a lurch of anticipation as she came closer and a wave of her magic pushed him flat on his back.

And then she was straddling him on the velvet bench, her knees pressing into the velvet on either side of his hips, her heat just inches away from where he needed her. The fabric of her stockings was so soft against his bare skin. Her corset pushed her breasts up, into a tantalizing display above him. Her long, silver hair cascaded down to brush against his chest.

She lowered herself, until her sex was just a breath away from his cock, which twitched and throbbed with a need that was almost painful. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her stockings. He bucked his hips, and she let out a soft, breathy laugh as she shifted her weight away from him.

He watched, mesmerized, as removed one glove and she reached down between her own legs. He couldn't see what she was doing, but he saw her eyes flutter shut and her breath catch. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure, and he could feel the subtle rocking of her hips against her own hand. He wanted to be her hand. The pearls on the clamps bit into him again, mocking.

After a long, agonizing moment, she withdrew her hand.

"Want to taste?"

He nodded, speechless.

But she did not offer him her fingers. "Such a shame," she said, a playful pout on her lips as she instead darted out her own tongue to taste them. The sight was so intimate, so erotic, that he nearly spilled right there. She slipped the glove back on.

"Did you think you'd earned that?" she asked. "You're my toy, Henry. My plaything. You get what I give you. You don't deserve anything."

She shifted again, her stocking-clad thigh brushing against the sensitive skin of his cock. He let out a strangled gasp. He was so close, so painfully close. That had never happened, with any woman, that with a mere brush of her leg, he was ready to come.

"Please," he breathed, the word tearing from his throat. He'd never begged like this before. Not for anything.

"Please what, darling?"

He was drowning in her, in the scent and sight of her, the feel of her power holding him captive. He would do anything she wanted. Anything.

"Please, let me taste you, Mistress."

This time, he was rewarded with her smile. She scooted up his body, until her knees were on either side of his head, and her sex, still covered by the thin fabric of her stockings, was directly over his face. She was so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her, could smell the intoxicating musk of her arousal. He tried to reach up, but her thighs kept him at a distance.

"Beg."

"Please," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Please, let me lick you. Let me make you come. I need to taste you. I need to please you." For a moment, she seemed to be considering it, and he was filled with a desperate hope. "I'll be good," he promised. "I'll do whatever you say. I'll fuck you with my tongue until you're done with me. Please, Mistress."

Henry had eaten a woman out before. He knew what to do. But that had been in sweaty fumbling in the dark, with girls as inexperienced and unsure as he had been. Now, he wanted to do more than please her. He wanted to worship her.

She smiled.

Her panties dissolved away in a shimmer. He didn't have any more than a moment to appreciate the sight before she lowered herself onto his face, giving him exactly what he wanted.

He didn't have to be told what to do. He dove in, tongue-first, into her heat. He buried his face in her, his tongue finding her clit and swirling around it in a desperate, hungry rhythm.

She was slick and hot, and she tasted better than he could have ever imagined, just like she smelled. Some wild, forbidden fruit. He was so consumed with the taste of her, he almost forgot the constant, aching pull of the pearls on his nipples.

He could feel her hips begin to rock, grinding against him, taking her pleasure from his mouth. He lapped at her, eager to please, driving his tongue as deep inside her as he could before returning to her clit. So pink and puffy. He could feel the little nub swell and harden under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth, and her answering moan was sweet.

Her hands found their way into his hair. She fisted a handful, pulling just enough to send a sharp thrill through him.

"That's it," she breathed, her hips moving faster. "Just like that."

She began to ride his face in earnest. He was nothing but a tool for her pleasure. The thought sent a fresh jolt of arousal through him, and he moaned into her wetness. He focused on her clit, alternating between firm, fast strokes with the flat of his tongue and gentle, teasing circles around the sensitive bud. She seemed to like both.

"Ah!" Her grip on his hair tightened, her thighs tensing on either side of his head. "Good boy. So... good..."

He redoubled his efforts, determined to push her over the edge.

Her thighs began to tremble. She gasped, her hips bucking wildly against his face. He held on, his tongue working furiously, not quite able to breathe -- but he couldn't bring himself to care. He would die happy like this, suffocated between the thighs of this magical creature. The thought, and the lack of air, made him lightheaded with pleasure.

He took a break from her clit to hold his tongue flat against her, as she ground herself against it. She clearly had some experience at this. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it from him.

With a final, shuddering moan, she came.

Her thighs clamped around his head, her entire body going rigid. He could feel the rhythmic clenching of her muscles against his tongue as her orgasm surged through her.

And then... something else. A wave of magic, so light he might have imagined it. A tingling warmth started at the base of his spine and radiated outwards, until every part of him was humming with pleasure. Even the bite of the pearls on his nipples transformed into a dull, blissful ache. It was like stepping into a warm room from the cold.

She held him there for a long moment, her body still quivering, her breathing ragged. Then, with a soft sigh, she relaxed her thighs and rolled off him.

"Very good," she said, her voice husky with satisfaction.

He could feel her magic on him again, a light, tingling sensation as she released the spell on his wrists. The pressure vanished. He flexed them, feeling the blood rush back into his hands. He wanted to touch himself. He needed to. He reached for his cock, but she was faster than he was. A wave of her hand and he was immobilized again.

"Did I give you permission to touch yourself?"

He let out a frustrated groan.

She stood over him, a goddess in her post-orgasmic glow.

"Please, Mistress," he begged, his voice hoarse. "I'm so close."

"You'll come when I say you can come, and not a moment before."

***

Nessa had to admit, she was impressed.

The boy had stamina. The way he had surrendered himself so completely to her pleasure, holding nothing back... it had been intoxicating. It had been a long while since she'd had a client who was so eager to please. And that orgasm... she hadn't expected that. It wasn't unheard of for a powerful orgasm to trigger a sympathetic wave of magic, but it was rare. And she had certainly never experienced it before.

His desperation was also... persuasive.

He lay across the velvet bench, bound by her will, flushed with desire. She could see the frantic pulse beating in the thick vein at the base of his cock. His beseeching gaze was fixed on hers. The pearls of regret were still clamped to his nipples, glowing faintly. He was a perfect picture of debauched submission.

She had half a mind to keep him there all night, to see how long she could draw this out. To see how much he could take. But she had to admit, he had done a very good job. And the other part of her, the part that was now thoroughly sated and generous, wanted to see him come.

"Get up," she said, releasing him from her magical hold.

He scrambled to obey, rising unsteadily to his feet. His cock, hard and weeping, jutted out from his body. She had to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

"Turn around."

He did as he was told, presenting himself to her. His back was a broad, muscular expanse, tapering to a narrow waist and the firm, rounded globes of his ass. She took her time, admiring the view. His skin had been marred before she'd touched it, with little scars and burns, presumably from a life spent as a baker. But her own marks were now there, too. The faint, reddish lines of her flogger were beginning to bloom across his thighs. She rather liked the sight of them.

She gave his ass a sharp smack with her thornrod, enjoying the jiggle of the flesh and the grunt he gave in response. She circled him, coming to a stop in front of him.

"Get on the table," she said, gesturing with the rod.

His eyes darted to the table with the leather straps. She had caught him looking at it before, his eyes seemingly drawn to it, again and again. Perhaps he would enjoy this, then.

As soon as he was in position, the leather straps tightened, binding his limbs in place. He was completely at her mercy now -- face up on the table, arms and legs spread wide, with a fifth strap across his waist.

"Are you afraid?" she asked, her voice soft as she approached.

"Of you? Yes," he admitted, eyes wide.

She smiled. "Good."

She approached the table.

She was tempted to take her gloves off, just to see what he might feel like. She did not usually touch clients directly. Her magic allowed her to manipulate them at a distance, and she so hated to get her gloves dirty. In the beginning, it had been about a kind of control. Her touch was a luxury to be earned, which could not be bought even with the deepest pockets.

But Henry was not a client. Not really. As she stood there, watching him writhe in anticipation, she found herself wanting to feel the heat of his skin. She wanted to know what it would feel like to wrap her bare hand around the thick, straining length of him. To feel the soft skin of his cock under her fingers as she stroked him. She liked the way he looked at her, through his dark lashes, sandy hair misbehaving, with that earnest flush on his cheeks...

When she turned away, he nearly whimpered. She walked slowly to her wall of instruments. She bypassed the paddles, the spiked rods, and more wicked clamps. Her fingers hovered over a slim, crystalline vial filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid -- a single drop of this, and she could keep him hard and desperate for hours. Tempting. But the thrill of a prolonged torment had faded, replaced by a simpler, more immediate desire. Instead, she chose a small glass tube of golden oil, warmed with a charm, and a narrow, tapered rod of polished obsidian.

She returned to him, the items floating silently in her wake.

"Close your eyes."

He obeyed.

Slowly, she pulled one of her gloves off. Then she slipped off the other, setting both of them aside. She stretched her fingers, flexing them.

As she poured a generous amount of the oil onto her palms, she said, "I'm going to milk your cock, now." She used the word deliberately, watching his reaction. "And while I do that, I'm going to put something inside of you."

His reaction thrilled her. The bob of his throat, the deepening of his flush.. And then, the subtle way his legs strained against their bonds, trying to widen for her.

She waited for a moment, letting him stew in the anticipation. Then she laid her bare hand against his chest. His skin was hot, and she could feel the frantic flutter of his pulse beneath her touch. She let her fingers trail lower, along the flat plane of his stomach, through the coarse curls at the base of his cock, to the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He shuddered, but his eyes remained closed.

"So good," she murmured, "So perfect."

She wrapped her hand around his cock. He let out a strangled gasp, his hips bucking up into her touch. His skin was so soft, so smooth. She could feel the thick vein that ran along the underside of him, the way he throbbed in her grip.

"Don't come," she warned.

She began to stroke him, her grip firm, her movements slow and deliberate. She teased him, her thumb sweeping over the head of his cock, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. His entire body was taut. As she continued to tease him, she began to raise the table, angling it until he was almost standing up, if not for his restraints.

"Open your eyes."

He did. The look in them was a mixture of desperation, need, and adoration. And that was her undoing. That was the thing that made her want to give him what he wanted. To give him what he needed.

She slicked the obsidian rod with the oil, warming it further with the friction of her palm. Then she re-coated her other hand in the glistening liquid and returned her grip to him. He moaned as her slick, bare fingers glided over his length. She could feel every pulse, every throb of his arousal. Her other hand, the one with the wand, moved lower. She traced the slick, tapered tip over the sensitive skin behind his balls, down to the tight, furling entrance of his ass. She circled it slowly, teasing him, letting him get used to the sensation. He was panting now, his hips moving in small, desperate circles, trying to get more of her touch.

She pushed the tip of the wand inside him. The resistance was brief before he yielded, the slick obsidian sliding into him with a soft pressure. She pushed it deeper still, feeling the subtle tightness as she passed the initial ring of muscle.

The wand was designed to find the right spot, to press against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him. She adjusted its angle, watching his face carefully. She knew she had found it when he let out a choked gasp, his back arching off the table, his cock twitching violently in her other hand. He looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes as if to say, What is this sorcery?

She smiled slowly. "Let your Mistress take care of you."

She began to move her hands in tandem. Her strokes on his cock were firm and steady, her fingers gliding over the slick, heated skin. With her other hand, she began to fuck him with the wand. He was making the most wonderful noises now. Soft, breathy whimpers and choked moans. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut again, brows knitted together.

His cock was leaking a steady stream of clear fluid, coating her fingers, making the slide of her hand even more effortless. His balls, tight and drawn up, slapped against her wrist with every thrust of the wand. The table creaked with his writhing.

She kept stroking him, milking him, the wand pressing relentlessly against that spot inside him, and found that her own arousal was stirring again.

"Please," he begged. "Please, Mistress. I'm... I'm going to..."

"I didn't say you could come," she murmured, but she helped him by slowing her strokes.

The muscles in his arms and legs stood out in sharp relief. She had seen men in this state before. Desperate, pleading, on the very brink of release. She had taken them to the edge and left them there for hours. It was usually her favorite part. But now, more than anything, she wanted to make him come, wanted to feel him pulse and spill against her bare skin.

At some point, his eyes had opened and become fixed on hers. He was so tempting in his desperation, his cock so needy and beautiful.

The thought made her pause. Beautiful?

She found herself leaning down, her hair brushing against his thigh. She pressed a soft kiss to the straining head of his cock. She licked the bead of fluid from the tip, her tongue swirling around the sensitive slit. He made a soft sound. She smiled and took the head of him into her mouth, sucking gently. He tasted of salt and the faint, sweet almond-like incense of the oil. Oh, she could do this forever.

She released her hold on the wand, using her magic to keep it moving, to keep it pressed exactly where it needed to be. Instead, her hand went to her pussy, her fingers finding her own clit where she was slick and swollen anew. She began to rub herself, her movements mirroring the rhythm of her mouth on him.

She took him deeper, her tongue working against the sensitive ridge on the underside of his shaft. She hollowed her cheeks, her head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm. She knew he wouldn't last long from this stimulation.

"Mistress," he gasped, "I'm... I can't..."

She could feel it, too. The twitch in his cock, the tightening of the muscles in his thighs. With her mouth occupied, she could only give a hum of permission. It was enough.

He came with a hoarse moan, his hips bucking, his hands fisted against the leather restraints. The first spurt of his release hit the back of her throat, hot and salty. She swallowed.

Her own orgasm crested in a wave of blissful heat that started in her toes and washed over her. She moaned around him, the vibrations sending another shudder through his body. He spurted again and again, and she swallowed it eagerly, the two of them playing off of each other's pleasure until he went limp.

Finally, she released him, a single string of fluid connecting her lips to the head of his cock. A small drop of his spend escaped, clinging to the corner of her lips before she caught it with her tongue.

***

The leather straps on the table fell away with a soft sigh of leather. Henry stumbled down from his restraints, his legs trembling. He fell to his knees before the half-elf dominatrix, a position that now felt as natural as standing.

She met him halfway, her hands coming down to cup his face. They were warm. Soft. He leaned into her touch.

"You did very well, Henry," she murmured, her thumb stroking the stubble on his jaw. "Such an obedient pet."

He looked up at her, at her dark, fathomless eyes, her swollen lips. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn't dare. Instead, he simply basked in her praise, her touch. "Thank you, Mistress."

"You may call me Nessa," she said, her voice soft. "When we are like this."

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against her thigh. He could feel the delicate lace of her stocking against his skin. He wanted to stay like this forever, at her feet, but she guided him to stand and led him to the bed. He sat down, facing her, looking up at her.

She began to remove the rest of her lingerie. First, the garters and stockings, rolling them down her long legs. He took in the sweep of her pointed ears, the slight uptilt of her eyes. The swell of her hips. The soft, silver thatch of hair between her legs.

Then the corset, a series of intricate hooks and laces that she undid with practiced ease. Her skin had impressions from the boning, pink lines that stood out. Her breasts were perfect. Full and pale, tipped with rosy nipples. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and cupped one of them. He brushed his thumb over the nipple, watching as it tightened into a hard little bead.

She let out a soft sigh, her head falling back. He took it as an invitation. He leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste her. He swirled it around her nipple, then took it into his mouth, sucking gently. She moaned softly, her fingers tangling in his hair. He lavished attention on her other breast.

After a minute or two, she gently pushed him down on his back and climbed into the bed beside him. She stretched out like a cat, her slender body languid, and then pulled him against her again so he could rest his cheek against her chest. Her fingers rubbed small circles into his back.

"Was that what you expected?" she asked.

"I didn't know what to expect," he admitted. "But... it was better. I never... I never knew it could be like that."

"Most people don't know the pleasure of pain."

"Did you... enjoy it?" he asked, a little anxiously.

She let out a genuine laugh. "I don't make it a habit to be left unsatisfied."

He wanted to ask more. To ask why she did this, if she enjoyed it, if she'd do it again. But he didn't want to spoil the moment. And her body felt so good and right against his.

Until, he realized, "The bread!" It had surely gone cold by now...

For a moment, she looked exasperated, and then let out a laugh.

"Hush, baker's boy," she said, still laughing a little bit, "I have a warming spell for such things."

And with that, she leaned over and kissed him.

***

I hope you enjoyed this story! Any and all feedback is welcome.