[Bondage] Odete takes a VIP out by surprise [F21/M55]

[barnstorm15]

The Miami sunrise spills through the suite’s glass walls, warm and golden, like the room has no idea what I’m doing in it.

I’m riding him.

Slow, deep, filthy.

My knees sink into the mattress as I bounce on his cock, my hands planted on his chest, my hips controlling every single inch he gets.

He’s tied to the headboard... wrists spread, rope tight... and blindfolded (of course...), because men like him behave better when they can’t see what they think they own.

He moans under me, breath hot and shaky. “Fuck, Odete… you ride like a demon.” I grind down hard, just to hear the breath punch out of him. His cock twitches inside me, thick enough to annoy me but not enough to satisfy me. His body flexes against the ropes, testing them like he thinks he can break free.

He can’t.

I tied them myself.

His blindfold has slipped down to the top of his cheekbones, sweat gathering at the edge of the fabric. I bounce again... slow at first... just to tease him, rolling my hips in a deep circle.

My phone is in my left hand. I text Sean without even looking: 'Out all day. Don’t wait up.'

Send.

Slide the phone under the pillow.

I rise slowly... deliberate... letting him feel every inch of his cock sliding out of me.

Then I drop. Hard.

A sharp gasp rips from his throat.

Again.

His hips jerk against the ropes. I grin. "Uh-uh. You don’t move unless I let you." He groans, but his cock betrays him, twitching inside me like a live wire. I lean back, bracing my hands on his thighs, arching to take him deeper. The angle makes him hiss. His abs flex under my nails as I drag them down his chest.

He keeps thrusting up into me like he can claim something, which is cute. Every time I lift and drop onto him, his breath falters, and his hands strain uselessly against the ropes.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he groans. “Mm,” I reply, bored. “You’re loud.”

His breath stutters. "Odete—"

I cut him off with another brutal drop.

His groan is ragged, his cock pulsing. I can feel him fighting it—the way his thighs tremble. I slap his chest lightly. Testing. He gasps like it shocked him. I do it again, a little harder.

“Oh,” he laughs, breathless. “So that’s how you want to play?” “No,” I say. “This is how I keep you from talking.” But of course he talks anyway.

Too bad.

I speed up, slamming down on him in a relentless rhythm.

Sweat slicks my spine, my tits bouncing with every impact. The headboard rattles. “You know…” he pants, thrusting up into me, “you’re lucky to be in the same room as someone like me.” “And you’re lucky I haven’t gagged you yet,” I say, rolling my hips until he groans.

His cock throbs inside me, thick and relentless, as I slam down harder, my thighs burning with the effort of breaking him. Sweat slicks my ribs, my nipples tight peaks against the humid air, every grind of my hips a punishment.

Slap.

My palm cracks against his mouth this time, silencing whatever smug bullshit he was about to spew. His head jerks, but his hips buck up instinctively, driving him deeper.

I roll my hips in slow, sadistic circles. The stretch burns deliciously... he’s big enough to make me feel it, not big enough to ruin my focus.

He grits his teeth, but his breath fractures. I feel it... the telltale tremor in his thighs, the way his cock jumps inside me, betraying his desperation. He laughs... too smug. “We both know you didn’t come here for my body,” he says, and there it is...

The tone.

That heavy, condescending smirk in voice form.

I stop bouncing. He notices instantly.

“You hit a nerve?” he asks, grinning under the blindfold. “No,” I say. “Just thinking about how stupid you sound.”

He shifts, breath turning a little darker. “Let me help you make smart decisions, Odete. I’ve been in the game for decades. You’re still new. You’re wet behind the ears.”

“Wet somewhere,” I mutter, “but not for you.” He smirks. And then... He says something I don’t allow men to say to me.

“You should be grateful someone like me even lets you in the room.”

My slap hits his face so hard the blindfold drops completely to his neck.

He gasps.

“What the—”

“Shut up.”

I grab his chin hard, squeezing until his lips purse. “You don’t talk to me like that. Ever.”

His cock throbs inside me... he likes this. Of course he does. “You crazy little b*tch,” he whispers.

I ride him harder... punishing... my thighs flexing, my c*nt gripping him like a vise.

I slap him again. Harder.

“You haven’t seen crazy,” I growl, and then I slam down onto him.

He chokes on a moan, his back arching. I bounce on him fast, brutally, my ass smacking against his thighs, the sound sharp and obscene in the quiet room. I’m using him. Pinning him. Grinding on him until his breath comes out in broken pieces. My nails carve into his chest as I ride him with brutal precision, each downstroke a calculated fuck you.

His body locks up, his cock pulsing, but I don’t let up. Not even when his breath turns ragged, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Odete—"

Slap.

I lean back, bracing my hands on his knees, and fuck him with short, vicious snaps of my hips. His hands twist against the ropes, his biceps straining, but the knots hold. Always do.

“Fuck... Odete... slow down...”

“No.”

I place one hand on his throat, not squeezing... just reminding him who sets the rhythm... and ride him harder. His body starts to jerk.

He’s close.

I squeeze my inner muscles around his cock... tight, intentional, cruel... and he swears under his breath, hips lifting off the bed as pleasure slams into him. He’s trying not to cum. His cock twitches inside me again. I laugh... soft, mocking... before slapping him.

Crack.

His head jerks to the side. “Fuck,” he hisses.

I do it again.

Harder.

His hips buck up, but I press my palm flat against his chest, pinning him down as I ride him slow. Torturously slow. “You don’t cum until I say,” I breathe, nails digging into his skin. His cock pulses inside me, thick and stubborn. I clench around him, watching his breath hitch, his muscles tense.

Not yet.

My fingers trail up my stomach, tracing the damp valley between my tits before circling my clit. He’s panting now, his cock throbbing, his hips lifting desperately. I grind down harder, my thighs trembling at the pressure... so close, but not 'there'.

I want him to fail.

I need to finish this, and now.

I drop my weight onto him, brutal and sudden, my nails raking down his chest. He arches, his breath coming in sharp gasps. “Fucking... CUM” I snarl, slamming down again, fucking him like I’m trying to break him.

“Don’t—” he gasps. “Odete... wait...”

I bounce hard, one last time, clenching around him until he breaks.

He cums with a groan that sounds like defeat, body convulsing under me, wrists tugging at the ropes as if begging for release.

Too late.

I climb off him immediately, wiping a bead of sweat from my cleavage.

He’s panting, blindfold hanging around his neck, hair stuck to his forehead.

He looks ruined.

Good.

“You’re—” he pants, trying to catch his breath... “you’re really leaving me like this?”

“Obviously,” I say, adjusting my bra strap.

His laugh is small, wounded.

“You’re impossible.”

“No,” I say, slipping my phone into my bag. “I’m effective.”

Before I leave, I walk to the vase on the dresser... tap it lightly with one fingertip.

A click inside confirms the recording ended. His eyes widen. “Are you...” “Relax,” I say. “It’s just insurance. You say stupid things sometimes.”

I open the door.

He tries one last line: “You’re gonna call me again, right?” I smirk over my shoulder. “In your dreams.”

Door shuts.

Silence.

Miami sunlight swallows me whole as I walk away, already done with him.

[barnstorm15]

The track was already hot by the time I arrived...

Not the comfortable kind of heat—the kind that clings to your skin, settles into your lungs, makes every breath feel heavier than it should.

Most runners hate that.

I don’t.

Because out here, everything makes sense.

Run faster.

Push harder.

Get better.

No negotiations. No hidden angles. No second meanings.

Just results.

“Times are up!”

Coach Navarro’s voice cuts across the lanes, sharp enough to snap everyone out of their own head.

I slow to a jog, heart still pounding, and head over with the rest of them.

No one says anything.

No one ever does.

But everyone looks.

I scan the sheet quickly.

Then again.

There it is.

Not on the team.

Not yet.

But close enough that it matters.

Close enough that I can already feel what it would be like to cross that line.

“Cardoso.”

I glance over. Coach is watching me, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.

“That was better,” he says. “Much better.”

A pause.

Not accidental.

“You keep that up, and things start to change.”

I nod once.

“I will.”

And I know I will.

Because this is the one place where effort actually leads somewhere.

No shortcuts.

No manipulation.

No… complications.

“Yo, Odee.”

Mike jogs past me, flashing a grin.

“You’re creeping up on us.”

“Good,” I reply. “You should be worried.”

He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else there.

Competition.

Respect.

Maybe both.

Amira joins in, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“He’s right,” she says. “You’re getting close.”

Close.

It’s a dangerous word.

Close means pressure.

Close means expectation.

Close means something is about to shift.

“I like pressure,” I say.

And I do.

Out here, it’s simple.

Earn your place.

Or don’t.

We finish the session together, easy laps, loose conversation. The kind that doesn’t matter—but somehow still does.

For a while, I forget everything else.

Who I am outside this track.

What I’ve already done today.

What’s waiting for me tonight.

For a while…

I’m just here.

And that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

Because the moment I step off the track, I see him.

Waiting.

Like he knew exactly when I’d be done.

The shift is immediate.

Subtle—but absolute.

The runner fades.

The other version of me steps forward.

The one that doesn’t rely on effort.

The one that creates outcomes.

“You took your time,” he says as I approach.

“I always do,” I reply.

It’s not a lie.

He studies me for a second longer than necessary.

Like he’s trying to figure something out.

He won’t.

They never do.

“Tonight still works?” he asks.

“It does.”

“Good,” he says, adjusting his sleeve. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Of course you are.

I don’t say it.

I don’t need to.

Instead, I give him a small, controlled smile.

“You should be.”

That’s enough.

It’s always enough.

I walk past him without stopping.

Without looking back.

Because I already know what tonight is going to become.

And more importantly…

I know exactly what I’ll do when it does.