Fantasy RAVEN (THE SPY)

[Ved122]

UPDATE 2
I stay bent over the sofa a few seconds longer, letting him feel like the conqueror while his cock slips out of me, followed by a thick, warm river of his cum that slides down the inside of my left thigh. I shiver (partly for his benefit, mostly because I love the feeling of being marked).
“Fuck,” he exhales against my neck, voice hoarse. “I need another drink. And then I’m going to wreck that ass properly.”
I laugh, low and throaty, and push back against him so my ass grinds over his spent cock. “Give me thirty seconds to breathe, Vikramji, and I’ll let you split me in half.”
He slaps my ass again (possessive, proud) and staggers toward the bar.
paralysis starts… now.
I turn, lean back on the sofa, legs deliberately open so he can see his cum glistening on my swollen pussy lips. The injector is already pressed to the side of his neck before he realises I’ve moved.
His eyes widened. “What the—”
The plunger clicks. His glass slips from his fingers and shatters on the marble.
He drops like a marionette with its strings cut.
I catch him before his head cracks the floor (no point leaving DNA-rich bloodstains). I roll him onto his back, straddle his chest, and watch the panic bloom in his eyes as his body refuses to obey him.
“Shh,” I whisper, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Scopolamine derivative. You can see, hear, and feel everything. You just can’t move. Or scream. Twelve minutes. Maybe fifteen if you’re unlucky.”
His pupils are huge.
I stand, let my ruined skirt fall back into place, and step over him toward the bedroom. The suite is exactly as intel described: minimalist, arrogant, all dark wood and gold accents. The safe is behind the Rothko knock-off in the walk-in wardrobe.
I find the memory card in under ninety seconds (taped inside a hollowed-out Mont Blanc box). I plug the tiny reader into the port hidden under my navel piercing, start the copy. Copy complete. I slip the real card back exactly where I found it (he’ll never know it was touched).
Seven minutes left.
I return to the living room. He’s still on the floor, chest rising and falling too fast. His cock, traitor that it is, has started to harden again just from the sight of me walking toward him, heels clicking, breasts swaying in the ripped blouse.
I crouch, drag my nails lightly up his inner thigh. “Still with me, baby?”
His eyes scream yes.
“Good.”
I bind his wrists above his head to the leg of the heavy teak coffee table. Not that he can fight, but symbolism matters.
I straddle his face, skirt rucked up again, and lower my dripping pussy onto his mouth.
“Clean me up.”
He has no choice. His tongue is frantic the moment it can move (which is not at all), but the paralysis doesn’t affect involuntary muscles yet. I grind slowly, smearing his cum and mine across his beard, his nose, his cheeks. My clit throbs against the bridge of his nose. I come again, smaller this time, a lazy roll of pleasure that leaves me sighing.
Four minutes.
I slide down his body, line him up, and sink onto his cock in one slick drop.
He’s fully hard now (rage and lust and terror make a potent cocktail). I rode him slowly at first, rolling my hips, letting my long hair curtain us both.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
His eyes lock on mine.
I lean forward, bite his lower lip until I taste blood, then kiss him deep and filthy, sharing the taste of us.
“You’re going to remember this,” I tell him, voice soft. “Every time you fuck your wife, every time you jerk off in some five-star shower, you’ll feel me riding you while you couldn’t move. You’ll come harder than you ever have in your life, and you’ll hate yourself for it.”
I sit up, plant my hands on his chest, and start fucking him in earnest. Hard, punishing drops that slap my ass against his thighs loud enough to echo. My breasts bounce free of the ruined blouse; the nipples are dark and tight. I pinch them myself because he can’t.
His cock swells inside me (close already).
I stop.
He groans (a desperate, animal sound that can’t quite make it past his lips).
“Not yet.”
I reach behind me, slick my fingers in the mess between us, and push two into my ass without ceremony. The stretch makes me gasp; I love that burn. I finger-fuck myself lazily while clenching around his cock, watching his eyes try to roll back in his head.
When I’m loose and ready, I rise up, angle him higher, and take him into my ass in one slow, relentless slide.
No lube but cum and spit (exactly how I like it).
The noise he makes is inhuman.
I give myself ten seconds to adjust, then I ride him like I’m trying to kill him with my ass. Up and down, grinding, twisting. My fingers find my clit and I rub in tight, vicious circles.
I come first (a violent, full-body spasm that milks him so tight his hips try to buck even through the paralysis). The clench drags him over with me. He erupts inside my ass, hot pulses that I feel all the way in my spine.
I keep moving until he’s whimpering (actual tears now).
Then I lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth almost tenderly, and whisper, “You sold guns to men who put bullets in little girls. Tonight you just got fucked by one of the mothers who will never forget.”
I stand. His cum leaks from both my holes, streaking my thighs like war paint.
I fix my skirt as best I can, tuck the torn blouse into it, and slip on the oversized blazer from the wardrobe (his, smells like oud and gun oil). Good enough to get me to the service elevator.
As I step over him one last time, I crouch, pat his cheek.
“Sweet dreams, Vikramji. The paralysis wears off in ninety seconds. Security will find you naked, covered in cum, with your own tie around your wrists.”
I blow him a kiss and walk away, heels steady, pussy and ass deliciously sore.
In the mirrored wall of the private elevator I catch my reflection: lipstick smeared, hair wild, eyes glittering like black diamonds.
I smile.
Job done. Body humming.