Page 95 of Puppy on a Leash

“You’re so hot.” Tony spoke as he stroked his softening cock lazily. I wasn’t sure that could feel very nice. I didn’t care. “I think next time we do this, I’ll flood your throat with my piss instead.”

A whimper escaped me—something akin to it. Seriously, no one was aware of how much they relied on their lips touching to make sounds until they tried a spider gag.

I wasn’t a fan of the not speaking, but I was a fan of the mind games. Panic and all.

“You like the idea, don’t you?” Tony cooed. “You’re filthier than people think.”

I nodded. I usually set watersports as a soft limit when I negotiated things. It felt like too much power to hand to any one person. It made me feel dirty, but… hot. Needy.

Tony would hit all those buttons, too, the ones that made me lose myself in degradation instead of making me itchy with it.

He’d proved himself.

I trusted him.

I loved him.

Shit.

My eyes misted over, and it wasn’t because of the abuse to my throat.

“Still green, pup?”

I nodded while trying to blink away the tears.

“Get on the bed,” he instructed next, seemingly satisfied with my nonverbal communication. “On your back.”

I scrambled to obey. Ignored the dryness settling in around the corners of my mouth, too.

Tony straddled me, hovering over me. He tugged at the collar with the leash I kept forgetting he was holding.

A soft groan escaped me as I lifted off the mattress. It was less than an inch, but it felt like more.

Tony pushed me down again before I could wonder what he was trying to do.

Just mess with my head, it seemed.

“Stay still, pup.”

I whined again. The sound was closer to what I attempted to do, at least in my head. I dreaded to see myself in a mirror. I had to be all flushed. Completely debauched. It was a good thing that Tony hadn’t taken this to the bathroom.

Before I could protest again—because protesting meant not stopping to think of other things that might send me spiraling in the wrong direction—Tony leaned over. He dropped the handle of the leash on the mattress.

I frowned, then tried to speak, but obviously couldn’t. Just a warbled mess came out. Probably more saliva. I really had to look a mess.

“Patience,” he reprimanded.

He tried to keep his voice soft, but I knew a warning when I heard one.

Still.

He slid his fingers under my head until the sound of a buckle unclasping registered.

He was taking the gag off?

I blinked. Should I sag with relief or cry? Sagging with relief was the logical step, but my body seemed more inclined to go with the crying. I scowled.

The pressure against the sides of my mouths lifted as he pulled the straps of leather to the front. He was gentle when he dislodged the gag from my mouth. I was glad he kept that stern gaze of his on me at all times. Chances were, if left to my own devices, I would’ve just yanked it out.

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