Slave #1 was going to absorb every bit of it. She locked him in a long, unyielding headscissors, thighs clamped so completely that he could not shift an inch, then steadily increased the pressure until the first broken pleas spilled out of him. His flushed face and strained noises meant nothing to her. She kept tightening those hard, practiced legs until the air was almost gone and panic sat right at the edge of his vision.
Whenever she eased the squeeze, it was only to fold him into something worse: a camel clutch that arched his spine until it screamed, a triangle that stole his breath from a new angle, a lotus lock that pinned him in a posture of total, embarrassing helplessness. Each hold was another way for her to remind him who owned the session.
