The command was simple: "Assume the position." Lena, naked and trembling, knelt on the plush rug, her arms stretched above her head, wrists loosely bound with silk. Her master, Marcus, circled her like a predator, his eyes drinking in the landscape of her vulnerability. "Such a responsive little thing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made her pussy clench. "Every inch of you begs to be touched."

He started not with his hands, but with his words. "Your ribs," he whispered, tracing the air an inch from her skin. "So delicate. I can see them jump with every nervous breath." Lena whimpered, her nipples hardening into tight, aching peaks. The anticipation was its own kind of torture.

Then came the first touch. Not a grab, but the lightest, most maddening skitter of his fingertips along the sensitive dip of her waist. She jerked, a giggle bursting from her lips. "Ah! Master, please—"

"Please what?" he teased, his fingers dancing up to the undersides of her tits, tracing the heavy curves without touching the needy buds directly. "You're my tickle slave. Your laughter is my music." He finally grazed a nipple, and she cried out, back arching. The sensation was electric, a sharp zing that shot straight to her soaked cunt.

He worked her over methodically, a connoisseur of her reactions. His nails dragged lightly over the soft skin of her inner thighs, making her legs quake. Each ticklish jolt was followed by a firm, possessive squeeze—a thumb pressing into the plump flesh of her ass, a palm cupping