Chapter 92: Thorne All Tied Up

Thorne nods. His throat works around a swallow; Dove pulls the rope out of her storage that sprout gave her. She loops it around one wrist, then the other, tying him to the headboard.

His arms stretch taut above his head, and the position pulls his chest into a long clean line, muscle shifting under skin as he tests the rope once—just once—a brief flex that could snap the frame of the bed if he wanted it to. He doesn’t want it to. She can see that in the way his whole body goes loose and trusting the second the rope holds.

"Good boy," she says, and watches the words land on him like a physical thing, his cock twitching against his stomach where it’s already hard, flushed dark, curved up thick and heavy. She’s seen it enough times now that the sight shouldn’t still make her breath catch, but it does—he’s big everywhere, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, and that bigness doesn’t stop below the waist

"Look how big you are," she says, wrapping a hand around him, feeling the way he jumps at just that light contact. "Every part of you. You know that? Big, strong, and you waited all day to let me see this."

Her thumb drags over the head, gathering the slickness already beading there, and his hips twitch up into her grip before he catches himself, forces himself still.

"Nnh-haah" The sound is swallowed almost before it starts, his jaw clenching around it. His eyes are screwed shut, ears pinned flat.

"That’s it," she breathes, stroking him slow, firm, watching the tendons stand out in his bound arms. "So proud of you. You’ve been so patient."

Thorne’s breathing goes ragged fast way too fast, she thinks, grinning to herself, because he’s been wound tight all evening, ever since she whispered in his ear at dinner what she planned to do to him once they were alone.

Dove feels the change in his cock before she hears it in his breath, the way it swells further in her hand, the vein along the underside pulsing hard against her palm. His thighs tense. His tail lashes once against the sheets.

She lets go.

"No, no, no." She says it almost sweetly, pulling her hand back and resting it instead on his heaving stomach. "No cuming until I say so."

"Nngh—" The sound rips out of him raw, strangled, his whole body arching against the ropes, hips bucking up into empty air like he can chase the sensation back. "Nh—haaah—p-p-p-please—"

"Shh." Dove presses her hand flat against his abdomen, feeling the muscle jump and twitch under her palm. "Quiet, remember? Or someone will hear exactly what kind of good boy you’re being."

He bites down on his own lip, hard enough that she worries for a second before she remembers his teeth are sharper than hers, built for different things, and he knows how to control that bite better than she gives him credit for.

A whine leaks out anyway, thin and desperate, muffled behind clenched teeth. The rope creaks as his arms flex not breaking, not even close, just trembling with the effort of not moving, not taking what his body is screaming for.

"You could snap these ropes right now," she says, watching his face, the way his brow pulls tight, ears flattened hard against his skull. "Couldn’t you."

A jerky nod. His eyes crack open, glassy, golden, fixed on her with something that looks like pleading and worship both at once.

"But you won’t. Because you’re being good." She leans down and presses a kiss to his sternum, feels his pulse hammering just beneath the skin there. "Because you like this. Being mine to use. Don’t you?"

"Y-yes—" The word comes out cracked, barely voiced. "Yes, Dove, please, I’m—I’m trying—"

"I know." She strokes a hand up his side, feeling him shudder. "You’re doing so well."

She gives him a minute. Two. Watches his cock soften by degrees from the edge it was teetering on, watches his chest stop heaving quite so hard, watches the tension bleed slowly out of his shoulders even as his hips still roll in small aborted motions, still seeking friction that isn’t there. His tail curls and uncurls against the sheets in restless twitches.

Only when his breathing evens does she lower her head.

She licks a slow stripe up the length of him first, feeling him jolt under her mouth, hearing the sharp hiss of breath through his teeth.

Then she takes him in, not all at once, she’s learned better than that by now, learned how to pace herself around something so thick it makes her jaw ache if she’s not careful—but steadily, her tongue working the underside as she sinks down, one hand wrapping around the base to cover what she can’t take.

"Oh fwaaahh oh-" His voice cracks on it, high and strained, and she feels more than hears the rope groan again as his arms pull taut.

She hums around him, reaches down with her free hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight they’ve already drawn up again. He’s close faster this time, because his body remembers what was denied it, remembers the ache of it, and chases release that much harder now.

His hips twitch up, shallow helpless little thrusts that she allows, bobbing her head to match his rhythm, feeling the salt-slick taste of him on her tongue, the heat of him filling her mouth. His breath comes in sharp panted bursts above her, barely contained whimpers threading through each exhale.

"D-Dove—Dove I’m—I’m gonna—nngh—please!"

She feels it coming, feels the way his cock throbs thick and insistent against her tongue, the way his whole body goes rigid as a bowstring...

And she pulls off.

"Ahh—!" The sound tears out of him before he can stop it, too loud, and he claps his own jaw shut around a second one, shoulders shaking, the cords of his neck standing out stark as he fights the aftershocks of denial with his whole body. His cock twitches hard against his stomach, untouched, weeping, and he makes a sound low in his chest that isn’t quite a sob but isn’t far from it either.

"Shh, shh," she soothes, stroking a hand up his heaving ribs.

"I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, Thorne. So, so good."

"Please—" The word comes out wrecked, barely more than air. "Dove, please, I need-"