When it’s wet, MishiiR will play…

He arrives in a suit.

That's the first thing — the deliberate, unhurried authority of a man dressed like he owns the room before he's even entered it. The tie perfectly knotted. The jacket cut to his shoulders like it was made as a warning. And the scent of him — God, the scent — something dark and clean that does things to your concentration you'd rather not admit.

He leans in to kiss me and I reach for him instinctively, hands flat against his chest, pulling —

He steps back.

Not a retreat. A correction.

"Ah ah. No." A pause, precise as a blade. "Put your hair up."

And there he is. The other one. The one beneath the suit. His tone doesn't rise — it doesn't need to. It simply lands, and something in me goes very still and very warm at the same time.

"Good girl." The words settle over my skin like a hand. "Now put this on."

From his jacket he produces a collar — supple leather the colour of midnight, a metal lead attached, the hardware cold and deliberate in his hands. He buckles it around my neck with the unhurried focus of a man performing a ritual he has thought about for some time. I feel the cool weight of it against my throat and something loosens in me, a door swinging open on quiet hinges.

His voice drops. Even and controlled.

"You are going to strip naked. Get on all fours. And when we go through that door —" he gestures and the lead shifts against my collarbone "— there will be men waiting. Naked. All of them hard." He lets that land. "I am going to parade you in front of every one of them. And then you are going to service each one while I watch." His eyes hold mine without blinking. "Be a good girl. Do not displease me."

I notice the whip in his hand before he raises it — suede leather, soft as a secret, capable of rewriting your nerve endings in a single stroke. The memory of it against bare skin surfaces fast and uninvited and my nipples harden before I can think about it. I press my lips together to hide the smile.

He sees it anyway. He sees everything.

From the bag — unhurried, deliberate, theatrical in the best possible way — he produces it: a butt plug, silver-based, a grey and white tail attached and already beautiful in its obscenity. He coats it in lube with the generous, focused attention of someone who intends to do this properly. Then he sits, pulls me down across his lap, my body arranged over him with the easy authority of a man accustomed to placement, my bare skin against the fine wool of his trousers, my ass positioned exactly where he wants it.

The first smack is open-palmed and unhesitating.

Then another. Then his hands are spreading me, kneading, pulling apart — and then the cold slick pressure of the lube, and his finger pressing in slow and certain, and the sound I make is embarrassingly honest. I can feel how hard he is against my stomach. I can feel how wet I already am.

He works the plug in with patience — turning it, opening me gradually, the fullness building in waves until it seats itself and the tail falls soft against the backs of my thighs and I am grinding against him before I've made the decision to.

"Stop it."

He tips me off his lap and onto my feet like he's setting something down. I stand there — collar, lead, tail, nothing else — and feel the plug shift with every breath, feel the slickness between my thighs, feel the particular electricity of being utterly exposed in front of a man who remains completely, infuriatingly dressed.

"Follow me."

He doesn't look back. He doesn't need to. The lead goes taut and I follow.

At the door he stops.

"Hands and knees. We're going in."

The room beyond is low-lit and warm and absolutely silent. Several men — naked, composed, watching — arranged as though they have been waiting. Every eye finds me the moment the door opens: collared, leashed, crawling across the threshold on my hands and knees, the tail brushing the floor behind me.

He leads me in a slow circuit. Unhurried. Deliberate. A man displaying something he is proud of.

We stop.

He passes the lead to the man in front of me without a word.

Then he walks to the chair in the corner — the only one in the room — and sits down. Still suited. Still perfectly composed. The only dressed body in a room full of naked ones. He crosses one leg over the other.

He nods.

I rise up on my knees, hold the man's gaze for a moment, and then lower my head and take him into my mouth.

From the chair in the corner, I feel his eyes on me like a hand at my throat.

He watches everything.

The room holds its breath.

I am aware of everything at once — the cool air against my bare skin, the weight of the collar at my throat, the soft brush of the tail against my thighs, the slow deep fullness of the plug shifting with every movement. And the eyes. Quiet, patient, watching from every corner of the room like men who have been told to wait and have learned, very well, how to do it.

But there is only one pair of eyes that matter.

From the chair in the corner he watches me work. Unhurried. Still dressed. One ankle crossed over his knee, the lead coiled loosely in his lap now, relinquished but not forgotten. His expression gives nothing away and everything away simultaneously — that particular quality of attention that makes you feel simultaneously exposed and chosen.

I focus.

The man in front of me has his hand resting lightly in my hair — not directing, not yet, just present. I take my time. Draw him in slowly, let my tongue move with intention, feel the sharp intake of breath above me and the involuntary tightening of his fingers. There is a particular power available here, on your knees, that most people never discover — the power of being the one who decides the pace, the pressure, the depth. The one who holds the edge.

From the corner: silence. And yet I feel him as though he has his hands on me.

When the first man finishes — his groan low and unguarded, his whole body releasing — I sit back on my heels and look up. Not at him. At the chair in the corner. I wipe my mouth. Lick my lips clean.

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, almost imperceptibly, and gestures left.

The next man.

This is how it continues. Each one different — one who watches the ceiling and tries to stay composed and fails magnificently, one who grips the back of my head with both hands and can't help himself, one who is almost silent until suddenly he isn't. Each one undone in their own particular way. And between each, that pause — my eyes finding his across the room, the nod, the next.

He is conducting something. I am both the instrument and the performance.

By the time the room has gone quiet, the men sated and scattered, I am kneeling in the centre of the floor. Breathing. Flushed. Wound so tight I feel like a sentence that hasn't been finished.

He stands.

He crosses the room slowly, suit jacket still perfectly in place, and stops in front of me. He takes the lead from where it has fallen and wraps it once around his hand. He looks down at me for a long moment — taking inventory, I think, though his face remains unreadable.

Then he crouches to my level. His hand finds my jaw, tilts my face up.

"Good girl."

Two words. And yet they move through me like the first drink of water after a long thirst.

His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and deliberate. His eyes are very dark and very close and full of something that hasn't been said yet.

"We're not finished."

He stands. The lead draws taut. He unzips his trousers and lets them fall to the floor. He looks down at me as he presses his hard cock to my lips. He strokes slowly. That cool controlled demeanour starts to slip.

"Open your mouth. I want you to taste me".

And I do.