Caught Bare in the Florist's Chains

Colette lingered behind the counter long after the last customer had gone, the air thick with roses and lilies. At twenty-eight she still blushed when Reid walked in each week, the thirty-five-year-old carpenter with sawdust on his boots and eyes that stripped her bare without touching. Tonight the special order of peonies sat ready. She heard his knock after closing and felt her pulse slam.

He stepped inside, tall and solid, scanning the dim shop. “Smells like surrender in here,” he said, voice low.

She locked the door herself, fingers shaking. “I’ve been thinking about this every time you come in. I want you to chain me. Tie me up right here among the flowers and fuck me hard. Please.”

Reid took the silk ribbons she thrust at him from the workbench, dark green and gold, soft as skin. “On your knees first. Show me.”

She dropped, thighs parting on the cool tile. He bound her wrists behind her back with practiced loops, then used the heavier display chains to cuff her ankles loosely, forcing her legs wide. The metal clinked against the floral hooks overhead. Colette’s breath hitched as he stripped her—blouse buttons popping, bra yanked down, skirt hiked and panties ripped aside until she knelt naked, pussy already dripping onto the floor.

“Look at you,” he murmured, two fingers sliding through her folds. She moaned, rocking onto them. He worked her open slowly, thumb circling her clit until her thighs trembled and she begged, “More—please, Reid, I need it.”

He pulled free and delivered a sharp slap across her ass. The sting bloomed hot. Another cracked against her bare tit, nipple stiffening under the blow. She gasped, arching into it, surrender flooding her. “Yes—discipline me. I’m yours.”

He hauled her up and bent her over the wooden work table, breasts pressed to the scarred surface among scattered petals. The ribbon chains served as reins; he wrapped them around his fist and drove into her in one deep thrust. Colette cried out at the stretch, wet and ready, walls clenching around his thick cock. He fucked her raw and relentless, hips slamming, the chains tugging her wrists back so her spine bowed. Each stroke bottomed out, balls slapping her clit.

“Harder,” she panted. “Chain me tighter—use me.”

He flipped her onto her back, yanking the ankle chains short and tying them to the table legs so she lay spread wide, glistening and helpless. Reid thrust deep again, then withdrew to drag a thick, smooth flower stem over her swollen clit. The cool slick pressure made her jerk and plead. He teased until she was sobbing for release, then buried himself once more, alternating long strokes with stem flicks that kept her hovering.

Finally he pulled out, sat on the edge of the table, and guided her to straddle him reverse-cowgirl. Chains wrapped once around her throat—loose enough to breathe, tight enough to feel owned—and her bound wrists. He controlled every bounce, hands on the links, lifting and dropping her so she impaled herself fully. Colette rode him frantically, ass flexing, the pressure at her neck spiking every wave of pleasure. His free hand spanked her tits in rhythm. She came first, screaming as her pussy milking him hard; he followed with a guttural groan, flooding her deep while the chains held her locked in place.

Silence settled only after the last shudder. Reid untied her slowly, kissing the pink marks on her wrists and the faint chain welts on her thighs, massaging until the sting eased. He lifted her trembling body and carried her to the back room, settling her on the old couch. Warm cloths from the sink cleaned her gently between the legs, wiping come and sweat with careful strokes. Colette leaned into him.

They shared a long, possessive kiss, tongues slow. Against his mouth she whispered, “Chain me again next week. Harder.”

“Every week,” he answered. “This is ours now.”

She rested her head on his chest. The shop held only the quiet drip of the sink and the soft rustle of flowers in the dark.