u/Present-Fox8618

The court sorceress lived in the eastern tower, where the stone was older than the kingdom and the air always smelled faintly of green things growing in the dark.

Princess Helena climbed the spiral stairs at moonrise, heart beating hard against the silk of her night robe. She was twenty-three, the king’s only daughter, and she had run out of quieter options. Assassins had already breached the outer walls twice. The protective wards woven by the royal mages frayed faster than they could be repaired. Only one person in the castle was said to work magic old enough to hold.

Sorceress Lillian opened the door before Helena could knock.

She was tall, barefoot, dark hair loose over one shoulder, wearing a simple black gown that left her arms and the strong lines of her collarbones bare. Her eyes were the deep green of moss on wet stone. She looked at the princess for a long moment, then stepped aside.

“You came,” Lillian said. “I wondered if you would.”

Helena’s voice was steadier than she felt. “I need protection. Real protection. The kind that doesn’t fail when the mages sleep.”

“And in exchange?”

Helena’s cheeks burned, but she did not look away. “Myself. However you want me. For as long as the protection holds.”

Lillian’s gaze traveled over her slowly. “I know what you look at when you think no one sees. The way your eyes linger on the serving women’s ankles. The way you shift in your seat when a lady of the court crosses her legs. You want more than protection.”

Helena’s breath caught. Shame and heat flooded her at once.

Lillian smiled, small and knowing. “Good. Honesty will serve you here. Kneel.”

Helena sank to the stone floor. Lillian closed the door, sealed it with a murmur, and walked a slow circle around her. Bare feet whispered against the flagstones. Helena’s eyes followed them helplessly—high arches, elegant toes, the faint sheen of oil as if Lillian had prepared for this.

“I will bind you with living thorns,” the sorceress said. “They will answer to your need and to my will. Every time you are brought to the edge and denied, they will tighten. The only thing that loosens them is proper worship of my feet. Not a quick kiss. Not a polite press of lips. Thorough. Devoted. Until I am satisfied. Do you accept?”

“Yes.”

Lillian stopped in front of her. “Say it fully.”

“I accept the thorns. I accept the denial. I accept that I will earn every moment of relief by worshipping your feet.”

“Pretty,” Lillian murmured. “Now lie back and open your legs.”

Helena obeyed. The sorceress knelt between her thighs, pushed the night robe aside, and rested both hands on Helena’s bare ankles. Green light gathered around her fingers. Thin, flexible vines the color of new leaves emerged from the air itself, coiling with deliberate care. They wrapped Helena’s ankles, then higher, forming delicate, living cuffs studded with tiny thorns that pressed against her skin without quite breaking it. The moment the binding sealed, a warm, intimate awareness bloomed between Helena’s legs—as if the thorns were already listening to her pulse.

Lillian sat back on her heels and simply looked at her.

“Already wet,” she observed. “From the binding alone. Or from looking at my feet while I worked.”

Helena’s face flamed. Both.

Lillian rose, crossed to a low couch, and sat. She extended one bare foot and rested it lightly on Helena’s sternum.

“Begin.”

Helena lifted her head and pressed her lips to the arch. The skin was warm, smooth, faintly scented with whatever oil Lillian favored. She kissed slowly, then more openly, tongue tracing the elegant curve. The thorns around her ankles remained loose, almost gentle. Lillian watched with heavy-lidded eyes, saying nothing, letting Helena continue—soles, toes, the sensitive places just beneath the ankles. Helena lost herself in it, cheeks burning, cunt aching, until Lillian finally spoke.

“Enough for now. Sit up. Hands in your lap. Do not touch yourself.”

Helena obeyed, breathless. Lillian leaned forward and slipped two fingers between the princess’s thighs. She found her slick and swollen, and began to stroke with maddening precision—light circles, firm pressure, the exact rhythm to drag her upward. Helena’s hips tried to follow. The thorns tightened in warning, tiny points pricking her skin.

“Stay still,” Lillian said softly. “You come only when I allow it. And I do not allow it yet.”

She worked Helena to the trembling edge in under two minutes, then stopped dead. Helena cried out at the loss. The thorns contracted sharply, a hot, precise sting that made her gasp. The denial settled deep, turning the unfinished pleasure into a throbbing ache.

Lillian sat back and extended her other foot.

“Again. Better this time. Show me you understand what loosens them.”

Helena bent to her task with something closer to desperation. She licked long, slow strokes over the sole, took each toe into her mouth, kissed the ball of the foot as if it were sacred. The thorns gradually eased, the sting fading into a warm pulse that mirrored the one between her legs. When Lillian finally pulled her foot away, Helena was shaking.

The sorceress edged her twice more that night. Each time the thorns tightened with the denial, and each time Helena had to earn their loosening with increasingly thorough, devoted worship. By the third denial she was openly moaning against Lillian’s arch, hips rolling in the air, tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes. Lillian did not let her come.

Instead she bound Helena’s wrists loosely with a second set of softer vines and left her on a pile of cushions at the foot of the couch.

“You sleep here,” Lillian said. “The thorns will remind you if you try to grind against the bedding. In the morning we begin again. The protection over the castle is already weaving itself. It will hold as long as you do.”

Helena, aching and marked by tiny crescents of thorn-prick, could only whisper, “Yes, Sorceress.”

The days that followed settled into a new rhythm.

Helena still appeared at court. She still wore silks and crowns and smiled at ambassadors. Beneath her skirts the living thorns remained, a constant secret weight around her ankles. Whenever Lillian decided the princess’s composure looked too intact, the sorceress would find her—sometimes in the tower, sometimes in a secluded gallery—and edge her with clever fingers or the soft, relentless press of a vibrating charm until Helena was on the brink. Then she would stop. The thorns would tighten. And Helena would drop to her knees, push her face against Lillian’s bare feet, and worship until the binding loosened again.

The desperation grew. Helena started craving the moments the thorns bit into her skin, because they meant she would soon be allowed to press her mouth to Lillian’s arches. She started dripping at the mere sight of the sorceress’s bare feet on the stone floors of the tower. Once, during a formal banquet, Lillian sat on the dais with one leg crossed over the other, sole visible, and sent a single slow pulse of magic through the thorns. Helena had to excuse herself before anyone noticed how hard she was breathing.

On the seventh night Lillian bound Helena spread-eagle on the tower bed with the living vines, thorns pressed just tight enough to warn. Then she straddled the princess’s chest, facing her feet, and lowered her cunt to Helena’s mouth while her own mouth hovered over Helena’s aching sex.

“You may come,” Lillian said, voice rough, “but only ruined, and only while your tongue is on me. If you stop worshipping, I stop. If you come fully, the thorns will not loosen for a day and a night.”

Helena licked as if her life depended on it. Lillian’s mouth descended at the same time—hot, skilled, merciless. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Helena’s orgasm gathered fast and hard. At the last possible second Lillian pressed two fingers firmly against her clit and held, turning the climax into a long, shuddering, incomplete series of pulses. Helena sobbed her pleasure into Lillian’s cunt, hips jerking against the restraining hand, the ruined orgasm leaving her even more wrung out and needy than before.

The thorns loosened only when Lillian finally lifted away, satisfied, and allowed Helena to finish cleaning her with slow, grateful strokes of her tongue.

Lillian unlocked the vines from her wrists and ankles but left the thorned cuffs in place. She brushed damp hair from Helena’s forehead.

“The castle is safer than it has been in years,” she said quietly. “The protection holds. And so do you. We continue. Tomorrow I will edge you before the morning court. You will stand beside your father’s throne with the thorns tight and my taste still on your tongue. And when you can no longer bear it, you will find me and earn your relief the way you always must.”

Helena, still trembling, still wet, still marked by the memory of thorns, turned her head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the nearest bare foot.

“Yes, Sorceress.”

Lillian’s fingers slid into her hair, gentle and possessive.

“Good girl. Sleep. The thorns will keep you company until I wake you.”

Outside the tower windows, the wards over the castle shimmered once in the dark—strong, green, and living—and held.

*****************************************************************************************************

Still aching for more?

My full length erotic novel "Mara: An erotic lesbian bdsm romance of control, devotion, and surrender" is available now on Amazon Kindle & free on Kindle Unlimited:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G44XSMGC

And if you’d like ongoing short stories, Patreon exclusives, and deeper access to my work, you can find everything here:

http://patreon.com/Ivory_Blackwood

Thank you for reading!

The court sorceress lived in the eastern tower, where the stone was older than the kingdom and the air always smelled faintly of green things growing in the dark.

Princess Helena climbed the spiral stairs at moonrise, heart beating hard against the silk of her night robe. She was twenty-three, the king’s only daughter, and she had run out of quieter options. Assassins had already breached the outer walls twice. The protective wards woven by the royal mages frayed faster than they could be repaired. Only one person in the castle was said to work magic old enough to hold.

Sorceress Lillian opened the door before Helena could knock.

She was tall, barefoot, dark hair loose over one shoulder, wearing a simple black gown that left her arms and the strong lines of her collarbones bare. Her eyes were the deep green of moss on wet stone. She looked at the princess for a long moment, then stepped aside.

“You came,” Lillian said. “I wondered if you would.”

Helena’s voice was steadier than she felt. “I need protection. Real protection. The kind that doesn’t fail when the mages sleep.”

“And in exchange?”

Helena’s cheeks burned, but she did not look away. “Myself. However you want me. For as long as the protection holds.”

Lillian’s gaze traveled over her slowly. “I know what you look at when you think no one sees. The way your eyes linger on the serving women’s ankles. The way you shift in your seat when a lady of the court crosses her legs. You want more than protection.”

Helena’s breath caught. Shame and heat flooded her at once.

Lillian smiled, small and knowing. “Good. Honesty will serve you here. Kneel.”

Helena sank to the stone floor. Lillian closed the door, sealed it with a murmur, and walked a slow circle around her. Bare feet whispered against the flagstones. Helena’s eyes followed them helplessly—high arches, elegant toes, the faint sheen of oil as if Lillian had prepared for this.

“I will bind you with living thorns,” the sorceress said. “They will answer to your need and to my will. Every time you are brought to the edge and denied, they will tighten. The only thing that loosens them is proper worship of my feet. Not a quick kiss. Not a polite press of lips. Thorough. Devoted. Until I am satisfied. Do you accept?”

“Yes.”

Lillian stopped in front of her. “Say it fully.”

“I accept the thorns. I accept the denial. I accept that I will earn every moment of relief by worshipping your feet.”

“Pretty,” Lillian murmured. “Now lie back and open your legs.”

Helena obeyed. The sorceress knelt between her thighs, pushed the night robe aside, and rested both hands on Helena’s bare ankles. Green light gathered around her fingers. Thin, flexible vines the color of new leaves emerged from the air itself, coiling with deliberate care. They wrapped Helena’s ankles, then higher, forming delicate, living cuffs studded with tiny thorns that pressed against her skin without quite breaking it. The moment the binding sealed, a warm, intimate awareness bloomed between Helena’s legs—as if the thorns were already listening to her pulse.

Lillian sat back on her heels and simply looked at her.

“Already wet,” she observed. “From the binding alone. Or from looking at my feet while I worked.”

Helena’s face flamed. Both.

Lillian rose, crossed to a low couch, and sat. She extended one bare foot and rested it lightly on Helena’s sternum.

“Begin.”

Helena lifted her head and pressed her lips to the arch. The skin was warm, smooth, faintly scented with whatever oil Lillian favored. She kissed slowly, then more openly, tongue tracing the elegant curve. The thorns around her ankles remained loose, almost gentle. Lillian watched with heavy-lidded eyes, saying nothing, letting Helena continue—soles, toes, the sensitive places just beneath the ankles. Helena lost herself in it, cheeks burning, cunt aching, until Lillian finally spoke.

“Enough for now. Sit up. Hands in your lap. Do not touch yourself.”

Helena obeyed, breathless. Lillian leaned forward and slipped two fingers between the princess’s thighs. She found her slick and swollen, and began to stroke with maddening precision—light circles, firm pressure, the exact rhythm to drag her upward. Helena’s hips tried to follow. The thorns tightened in warning, tiny points pricking her skin.

“Stay still,” Lillian said softly. “You come only when I allow it. And I do not allow it yet.”

She worked Helena to the trembling edge in under two minutes, then stopped dead. Helena cried out at the loss. The thorns contracted sharply, a hot, precise sting that made her gasp. The denial settled deep, turning the unfinished pleasure into a throbbing ache.

Lillian sat back and extended her other foot.

“Again. Better this time. Show me you understand what loosens them.”

Helena bent to her task with something closer to desperation. She licked long, slow strokes over the sole, took each toe into her mouth, kissed the ball of the foot as if it were sacred. The thorns gradually eased, the sting fading into a warm pulse that mirrored the one between her legs. When Lillian finally pulled her foot away, Helena was shaking.

The sorceress edged her twice more that night. Each time the thorns tightened with the denial, and each time Helena had to earn their loosening with increasingly thorough, devoted worship. By the third denial she was openly moaning against Lillian’s arch, hips rolling in the air, tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes. Lillian did not let her come.

Instead she bound Helena’s wrists loosely with a second set of softer vines and left her on a pile of cushions at the foot of the couch.

“You sleep here,” Lillian said. “The thorns will remind you if you try to grind against the bedding. In the morning we begin again. The protection over the castle is already weaving itself. It will hold as long as you do.”

Helena, aching and marked by tiny crescents of thorn-prick, could only whisper, “Yes, Sorceress.”

The days that followed settled into a new rhythm.

Helena still appeared at court. She still wore silks and crowns and smiled at ambassadors. Beneath her skirts the living thorns remained, a constant secret weight around her ankles. Whenever Lillian decided the princess’s composure looked too intact, the sorceress would find her—sometimes in the tower, sometimes in a secluded gallery—and edge her with clever fingers or the soft, relentless press of a vibrating charm until Helena was on the brink. Then she would stop. The thorns would tighten. And Helena would drop to her knees, push her face against Lillian’s bare feet, and worship until the binding loosened again.

The desperation grew. Helena started craving the moments the thorns bit into her skin, because they meant she would soon be allowed to press her mouth to Lillian’s arches. She started dripping at the mere sight of the sorceress’s bare feet on the stone floors of the tower. Once, during a formal banquet, Lillian sat on the dais with one leg crossed over the other, sole visible, and sent a single slow pulse of magic through the thorns. Helena had to excuse herself before anyone noticed how hard she was breathing.

On the seventh night Lillian bound Helena spread-eagle on the tower bed with the living vines, thorns pressed just tight enough to warn. Then she straddled the princess’s chest, facing her feet, and lowered her cunt to Helena’s mouth while her own mouth hovered over Helena’s aching sex.

“You may come,” Lillian said, voice rough, “but only ruined, and only while your tongue is on me. If you stop worshipping, I stop. If you come fully, the thorns will not loosen for a day and a night.”

Helena licked as if her life depended on it. Lillian’s mouth descended at the same time—hot, skilled, merciless. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Helena’s orgasm gathered fast and hard. At the last possible second Lillian pressed two fingers firmly against her clit and held, turning the climax into a long, shuddering, incomplete series of pulses. Helena sobbed her pleasure into Lillian’s cunt, hips jerking against the restraining hand, the ruined orgasm leaving her even more wrung out and needy than before.

The thorns loosened only when Lillian finally lifted away, satisfied, and allowed Helena to finish cleaning her with slow, grateful strokes of her tongue.

Lillian unlocked the vines from her wrists and ankles but left the thorned cuffs in place. She brushed damp hair from Helena’s forehead.

“The castle is safer than it has been in years,” she said quietly. “The protection holds. And so do you. We continue. Tomorrow I will edge you before the morning court. You will stand beside your father’s throne with the thorns tight and my taste still on your tongue. And when you can no longer bear it, you will find me and earn your relief the way you always must.”

Helena, still trembling, still wet, still marked by the memory of thorns, turned her head and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the nearest bare foot.

“Yes, Sorceress.”

Lillian’s fingers slid into her hair, gentle and possessive.

“Good girl. Sleep. The thorns will keep you company until I wake you.”

Outside the tower windows, the wards over the castle shimmered once in the dark—strong, green, and living—and held.

*****************************************************************************************************

Still aching for more?

My full length erotic novel "Mara: An erotic lesbian bdsm romance of control, devotion, and surrender" is available now on Amazon Kindle & free on Kindle Unlimited:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G44XSMGC

And if you’d like ongoing short stories, Patreon exclusives, and deeper access to my work, you can find everything here:

http://patreon.com/Ivory_Blackwood

Thank you for reading!

The training request form was supposed to be anonymous.

Ensign Robby Ryal learned it was not when Security Chief Commander Sinda walked onto the bridge during his shift, stopped beside his station, and said in a voice just low enough for him alone, “My office. End of rotation. Don’t be late.”

Robby’s mouth went dry. He kept his eyes on the tactical display and managed a crisp “Yes, Commander.”

Sinda was tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair pulled back in a severe knot, the kind of woman who could silence a room with a look. Her reputation for discipline was legendary. Robby had submitted the voluntary “performance enhancement” request three days ago after too many nights staring at the ceiling of his bunk, cock in hand, imagining exactly this. He had not expected her to answer personally.

When the shift ended he reported as ordered. Sinda’s office was sparse—desk, two chairs, a locked equipment cabinet, and a wide viewport showing the slow turn of stars. She sealed the door, engaged privacy mode, and turned to face him.

“You asked for intensive training,” she said. “I don’t do half measures. If we begin, you stay in it until I release you. That means a remote chastity device, strict denial protocols, scheduled ruined releases only when I decide you’ve earned them, and public risk. The cage has a status light. It stays dark unless I trigger it. If it lights up on the bridge, in the mess, anywhere the crew can see, you will explain it as a medical monitor. Clear?”

Robby’s heart hammered. “Clear, Commander.”

Sinda opened the cabinet and took out a sleek black chastity cage—custom-fitted, lightweight alloy, neural interface nodes along the base ring. A tiny LED sat flush on the top curve.

“Drop your uniform.”

He stripped. She fitted the cage with clinical efficiency. The ring closed with a soft magnetic click. The tube locked around his cock, already half-hard from nerves and anticipation. A cool tingle spread as the neural link engaged. His erection was immediately suppressed into a heavy, trapped fullness.

Sinda synced the device to her wrist console. “Test.”

A low pulse rolled through the cage. Robby’s hips jerked. The sensation was precise—stimulation without release, pressure without climax. She watched his face, then cut it off.

“You’ll wear it continuously. I control intensity, duration, and whether the status light activates. Ruined orgasms are the only reward. Full release is not on the table for the duration of training. You may request termination at any time, but if you do, the request is logged and you will not be eligible again. Still want this?”

Robby swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

“Good.” She stepped closer, one hand resting briefly on the cage. “Welcome to training, Ensign.”

The first day was pure denial.

Sinda kept the stimulation low and unpredictable. During morning briefing the cage gave a single deep throb that made Robby grip the edge of the tactical console. On the bridge during a routine sensor sweep it pulsed in slow waves for nearly ten minutes while he answered status requests in a steady voice. No one noticed. The status light stayed dark.

At the end of the shift she summoned him again. He stood at attention while she reviewed the biometric log.

“Elevated heart rate during the long pulse. Good control otherwise. You don’t get to come today.” She triggered a sharper sequence—thirty seconds of intense, rhythmic stimulation that brought him right to the edge—then cut it. Robby’s breath shuddered. The cage held him locked and aching.

“Dismissed.”

He walked the corridor back to his quarters with his cock throbbing uselessly against the alloy, every step a reminder.

By the third day the desperation was constant.

Sinda had begun using the public risk. Once, during a crowded shift change in the main corridor, the status light flickered a brief, bright blue. Two crew members glanced over. Robby kept walking, face burning, while the cage gave a single smug pulse as if acknowledging the exposure. Later in the mess hall the light stayed dark but the stimulation climbed in long, cruel waves while he tried to eat. He tasted nothing.

That night she ordered him to her quarters.

“You’ve held well,” Sinda said. She was out of uniform, wearing a simple black tank and pants, the console still on her wrist. “You’ve earned a ruined orgasm. Hands behind your back. Do not thrust.”

She unlocked the cage just enough to free him, then took him in a firm, oiled grip. Her hand worked him with devastating precision—tight, fast, perfect. Robby lasted less than a minute before the climax surged. At the exact peak she squeezed hard at the base and slowed, turning the orgasm into a long, pulsing, incomplete release. He came in weak, truncated spurts, pleasure cresting and collapsing into raw frustration. A broken sound tore out of him.

Sinda watched every second, then locked him back up while he was still twitching.

“That’s your reward. Tomorrow we’ll increase duration. The light will be more active. You’ll learn to stand on the bridge with the entire command crew watching while I decide how close you get.”

Robby, still shaking, could only nod.

The following week became a masterclass in controlled public desperation.

Sinda timed the stimulation to the ship’s rhythm. During tense navigational corrections the cage would edge him in tight, relentless cycles. During quiet night watches it would stay almost silent for hours, then surge without warning. The status light blinked at carefully chosen moments—once during a senior staff meeting, once while he stood at attention for the captain’s inspection. Each time Robby’s face stayed carefully neutral while his cock strained and leaked inside the locked tube.

He stopped sleeping well. He started moving through the ship in a permanent state of half-arousal and full denial. The ruined orgasm she gave him every third or fourth day only sharpened the need. Each one left him emptier, hungrier, more focused on the next time her hand or the cage’s internal stimulators would be allowed to push him to that incomplete peak.

One evening during a long-range patrol she called him to the security office after shift. The viewport showed a dense starfield. Sinda sat on the edge of her desk, legs crossed.

“You’ve been exemplary,” she said. “I’m extending the training period. Another two weeks. Higher baseline stimulation. More frequent light activation. Ruined releases only when I decide you’ve earned the disruption to your focus.”

Robby’s voice was hoarse. “Understood, Commander.”

She studied him for a long moment, then uncrossed her legs and leaned back slightly on her hands.

“You’ve earned something better than another ruin tonight.” Her voice stayed calm, almost conversational. “On your knees.”

Robby dropped without hesitation. The cage felt heavier the moment his knees met the deck. Sinda opened the front of her uniform trousers with deliberate ease, enough to bare herself. She was already slick. She reached down, threaded her fingers into his hair, and guided his mouth forward.

“Make me come,” she said. “The cage stays active the entire time. You do not get to stop until I finish. Clear?”

“Yes, Commander.”

The moment his tongue met her she triggered the device.

A low, relentless pulse rolled through the cage—precise, rhythmic, calibrated to keep him right at the edge without tipping over. Robby groaned against her and kept working. He licked her with focused, hungry precision, tracing every fold, circling her clit, pressing deeper when her breath changed. The chastity device never let up. It stroked and tightened and edged him in perfect counterpoint to the way he pleasured her, turning every shift of his jaw and every soft sound she made into fresh, trapped urgency between his legs.

Sinda’s fingers tightened in his hair. Her hips rolled once against his mouth. She kept her eyes open and watched him the entire time—watched the strain in his shoulders, the way his locked cock twitched uselessly inside the alloy, the desperate focus he poured into her pleasure because it was the only release available to him.

The edge inside the cage climbed higher the longer he worked. His thighs trembled. Precome leaked steadily against the inner tube. Still he did not stop. He licked her through the first sharp rise of her orgasm, then the second, longer wave, holding her open with his mouth while the device kept him locked in continuous, unanswered need. When she finally came with a low, controlled sound, thighs tightening around his head, Robby felt something deeper than his own climax could have given him—an intense, almost dizzying satisfaction that settled in his chest and behind his eyes. He had made her finish. He had been used for her pleasure while denied his own. The knowledge sat heavier and sweeter than any ruined orgasm she had ever granted him.

Sinda held him there through the aftershocks, then eased his head back. Her fingers stayed in his hair a moment longer, almost gentle.

“Good,” she said quietly. “That is the kind of satisfaction you get to keep. Your own release remains mine to withhold.”

She closed her trousers, locked the cage’s stimulation down to a low residual throb, and dismissed him with a final brush of her fingertips over the dark metal.

“Back to your station at 0600. The light will be active during morning briefing. I want to see how still you can stand.”

Robby rose on unsteady legs. The cage was still heavy between his thighs, status light currently dark, body singing with the familiar, addictive ache—and underneath it, the deeper, quieter satisfaction of having gotten his Commander off while locked and denied.

He had volunteered for performance enhancement.

He was beginning to understand he had volunteered for something far more complete.

And he had no intention of requesting termination.

**********************************************************************************

Still aching for more?

My full length erotic novel "Mara: An erotic lesbian bdsm romance of control, devotion, and surrender" is available now on Amazon Kindle & free on Kindle Unlimited:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G44XSMGC

And if you’d like ongoing short stories, Patreon exclusives, and deeper access to my work, you can find everything here:

http://patreon.com/Ivory_Blackwood

Thank you for reading!

The training request form was supposed to be anonymous.

Ensign Robby Ryal learned it was not when Security Chief Commander Sinda walked onto the bridge during his shift, stopped beside his station, and said in a voice just low enough for him alone, “My office. End of rotation. Don’t be late.”

Robby’s mouth went dry. He kept his eyes on the tactical display and managed a crisp “Yes, Commander.”

Sinda was tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair pulled back in a severe knot, the kind of woman who could silence a room with a look. Her reputation for discipline was legendary. Robby had submitted the voluntary “performance enhancement” request three days ago after too many nights staring at the ceiling of his bunk, cock in hand, imagining exactly this. He had not expected her to answer personally.

When the shift ended he reported as ordered. Sinda’s office was sparse—desk, two chairs, a locked equipment cabinet, and a wide viewport showing the slow turn of stars. She sealed the door, engaged privacy mode, and turned to face him.

“You asked for intensive training,” she said. “I don’t do half measures. If we begin, you stay in it until I release you. That means a remote chastity device, strict denial protocols, scheduled ruined releases only when I decide you’ve earned them, and public risk. The cage has a status light. It stays dark unless I trigger it. If it lights up on the bridge, in the mess, anywhere the crew can see, you will explain it as a medical monitor. Clear?”

Robby’s heart hammered. “Clear, Commander.”

Sinda opened the cabinet and took out a sleek black chastity cage—custom-fitted, lightweight alloy, neural interface nodes along the base ring. A tiny LED sat flush on the top curve.

“Drop your uniform.”

He stripped. She fitted the cage with clinical efficiency. The ring closed with a soft magnetic click. The tube locked around his cock, already half-hard from nerves and anticipation. A cool tingle spread as the neural link engaged. His erection was immediately suppressed into a heavy, trapped fullness.

Sinda synced the device to her wrist console. “Test.”

A low pulse rolled through the cage. Robby’s hips jerked. The sensation was precise—stimulation without release, pressure without climax. She watched his face, then cut it off.

“You’ll wear it continuously. I control intensity, duration, and whether the status light activates. Ruined orgasms are the only reward. Full release is not on the table for the duration of training. You may request termination at any time, but if you do, the request is logged and you will not be eligible again. Still want this?”

Robby swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

“Good.” She stepped closer, one hand resting briefly on the cage. “Welcome to training, Ensign.”

The first day was pure denial.

Sinda kept the stimulation low and unpredictable. During morning briefing the cage gave a single deep throb that made Robby grip the edge of the tactical console. On the bridge during a routine sensor sweep it pulsed in slow waves for nearly ten minutes while he answered status requests in a steady voice. No one noticed. The status light stayed dark.

At the end of the shift she summoned him again. He stood at attention while she reviewed the biometric log.

“Elevated heart rate during the long pulse. Good control otherwise. You don’t get to come today.” She triggered a sharper sequence—thirty seconds of intense, rhythmic stimulation that brought him right to the edge—then cut it. Robby’s breath shuddered. The cage held him locked and aching.

“Dismissed.”

He walked the corridor back to his quarters with his cock throbbing uselessly against the alloy, every step a reminder.

By the third day the desperation was constant.

Sinda had begun using the public risk. Once, during a crowded shift change in the main corridor, the status light flickered a brief, bright blue. Two crew members glanced over. Robby kept walking, face burning, while the cage gave a single smug pulse as if acknowledging the exposure. Later in the mess hall the light stayed dark but the stimulation climbed in long, cruel waves while he tried to eat. He tasted nothing.

That night she ordered him to her quarters.

“You’ve held well,” Sinda said. She was out of uniform, wearing a simple black tank and pants, the console still on her wrist. “You’ve earned a ruined orgasm. Hands behind your back. Do not thrust.”

She unlocked the cage just enough to free him, then took him in a firm, oiled grip. Her hand worked him with devastating precision—tight, fast, perfect. Robby lasted less than a minute before the climax surged. At the exact peak she squeezed hard at the base and slowed, turning the orgasm into a long, pulsing, incomplete release. He came in weak, truncated spurts, pleasure cresting and collapsing into raw frustration. A broken sound tore out of him.

Sinda watched every second, then locked him back up while he was still twitching.

“That’s your reward. Tomorrow we’ll increase duration. The light will be more active. You’ll learn to stand on the bridge with the entire command crew watching while I decide how close you get.”

Robby, still shaking, could only nod.

The following week became a masterclass in controlled public desperation.

Sinda timed the stimulation to the ship’s rhythm. During tense navigational corrections the cage would edge him in tight, relentless cycles. During quiet night watches it would stay almost silent for hours, then surge without warning. The status light blinked at carefully chosen moments—once during a senior staff meeting, once while he stood at attention for the captain’s inspection. Each time Robby’s face stayed carefully neutral while his cock strained and leaked inside the locked tube.

He stopped sleeping well. He started moving through the ship in a permanent state of half-arousal and full denial. The ruined orgasm she gave him every third or fourth day only sharpened the need. Each one left him emptier, hungrier, more focused on the next time her hand or the cage’s internal stimulators would be allowed to push him to that incomplete peak.

One evening during a long-range patrol she called him to the security office after shift. The viewport showed a dense starfield. Sinda sat on the edge of her desk, legs crossed.

“You’ve been exemplary,” she said. “I’m extending the training period. Another two weeks. Higher baseline stimulation. More frequent light activation. Ruined releases only when I decide you’ve earned the disruption to your focus.”

Robby’s voice was hoarse. “Understood, Commander.”

She studied him for a long moment, then uncrossed her legs and leaned back slightly on her hands.

“You’ve earned something better than another ruin tonight.” Her voice stayed calm, almost conversational. “On your knees.”

Robby dropped without hesitation. The cage felt heavier the moment his knees met the deck. Sinda opened the front of her uniform trousers with deliberate ease, enough to bare herself. She was already slick. She reached down, threaded her fingers into his hair, and guided his mouth forward.

“Make me come,” she said. “The cage stays active the entire time. You do not get to stop until I finish. Clear?”

“Yes, Commander.”

The moment his tongue met her she triggered the device.

A low, relentless pulse rolled through the cage—precise, rhythmic, calibrated to keep him right at the edge without tipping over. Robby groaned against her and kept working. He licked her with focused, hungry precision, tracing every fold, circling her clit, pressing deeper when her breath changed. The chastity device never let up. It stroked and tightened and edged him in perfect counterpoint to the way he pleasured her, turning every shift of his jaw and every soft sound she made into fresh, trapped urgency between his legs.

Sinda’s fingers tightened in his hair. Her hips rolled once against his mouth. She kept her eyes open and watched him the entire time—watched the strain in his shoulders, the way his locked cock twitched uselessly inside the alloy, the desperate focus he poured into her pleasure because it was the only release available to him.

The edge inside the cage climbed higher the longer he worked. His thighs trembled. Precome leaked steadily against the inner tube. Still he did not stop. He licked her through the first sharp rise of her orgasm, then the second, longer wave, holding her open with his mouth while the device kept him locked in continuous, unanswered need. When she finally came with a low, controlled sound, thighs tightening around his head, Robby felt something deeper than his own climax could have given him—an intense, almost dizzying satisfaction that settled in his chest and behind his eyes. He had made her finish. He had been used for her pleasure while denied his own. The knowledge sat heavier and sweeter than any ruined orgasm she had ever granted him.

Sinda held him there through the aftershocks, then eased his head back. Her fingers stayed in his hair a moment longer, almost gentle.

“Good,” she said quietly. “That is the kind of satisfaction you get to keep. Your own release remains mine to withhold.”

She closed her trousers, locked the cage’s stimulation down to a low residual throb, and dismissed him with a final brush of her fingertips over the dark metal.

“Back to your station at 0600. The light will be active during morning briefing. I want to see how still you can stand.”

Robby rose on unsteady legs. The cage was still heavy between his thighs, status light currently dark, body singing with the familiar, addictive ache—and underneath it, the deeper, quieter satisfaction of having gotten his Commander off while locked and denied.

He had volunteered for performance enhancement.

He was beginning to understand he had volunteered for something far more complete.

And he had no intention of requesting termination.

**********************************************************************************

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The sky-city of Lirathen floated above the cloud sea on titanic crystal spires, its white-stone terraces and hanging gardens glowing under the twin moons. On the highest terrace, the Temple of the Bound Veil opened its gates for the monthly Offering.

Sara stood barefoot on the cool marble, heart hammering. She was twenty-four, a junior mage with more ambition than rank, and tonight she had volunteered as the Offering. The living silk vines were already coiling around the altar—pale, iridescent, responsive to magic and desire alike. They had been grown for this purpose: to bind, to stimulate, to deny.

High Priestess Marielle watched her from the top of the shallow steps. Tall, silver-haired, eyes the deep violet of the evening sky, she wore only a draped skirt of black silk and a collar of woven moonlight. Her bare breasts caught the glow of the moons. Power rolled off her in quiet waves.

“You understand the terms,” Marielle said. Her voice was low, unhurried. “Once the vines take you, they will not release until I allow it. You may beg. You may cry. You may come only if I grant it. And I may not.”

Sara’s mouth was dry. “I understand.”

“Then present yourself.”

Sara stepped onto the circular altar. The moment her feet touched the stone, the vines stirred. They rose like pale serpents, cool and impossibly strong, and began to wrap her. Ankles first—tight, precise, forcing her legs apart. Then thighs, waist, ribs. They slid between her breasts, circled her throat in a loose, elegant collar, and finally claimed her wrists, drawing them high above her head until she was stretched and open under the open sky.

The vines were not merely restraints. Tiny, clever tendrils slipped between her legs, parting her, stroking with feather-light precision. Others found her nipples and began a slow, rhythmic suction. Sara gasped. Pleasure bloomed instantly—hot, wet, relentless.

Around the terrace, worshippers gathered. Dozens of them. Men and women of the sky-city, masked or bare-faced, watching in reverent silence. Some knelt. Some stood close enough that Sara could hear their breathing. The Offering was sacred. It was also spectacle.

Marielle descended the steps and walked a slow circle around the altar. She did not touch Sara yet. She only looked.

“Already wet,” the priestess observed. “Eager little mage. The vines feel it. They’re drinking your need.”

The tendrils between Sara’s legs pressed more firmly, parting her folds, rubbing in tight, maddening circles over her clit without ever giving enough pressure to tip her over. Sara’s hips jerked. The vines held her effortlessly.

“Please—” she began.

Marielle’s hand cracked lightly across the inside of one thigh. Not hard. Just enough. “Not yet. You haven’t earned words.”

The priestess continued her circuit, speaking softly to the gathered worshippers, accepting small offerings of moonstone and silver. All the while the vines worked Sara with merciless patience. They edged her in long, rolling waves—building heat until her thighs shook and her breath came in broken whimpers, then easing just enough to leave her aching and empty. Again. And again.

Time stretched. The moons climbed. Sara lost count of how many times she had been brought to the trembling edge and denied. Sweat slicked her skin. Her cunt clenched around nothing, dripping steadily onto the altar stone. The vines collected every drop, glowing faintly brighter with her desperation.

Marielle finally stepped close. She cupped Sara’s chin, forcing her to meet those violet eyes.

“Look at them,” she murmured. “They can see how close you are. How wet. How helpless. Does it shame you… or does it make you wetter?”

Sara’s face burned. Both. It was both. The knowledge that dozens of eyes were fixed on her bound, trembling body sent fresh heat flooding between her legs. The vines responded instantly, tightening, stroking faster.

“Answer.”

“Both,” Sara whispered. “Priestess—please—”

Marielle’s thumb brushed her lower lip. “Beg properly.”

“Please let me come. I’ll do anything. I’ll serve. I’ll—”

The priestess kissed her.

It was not gentle. Marielle claimed her mouth with slow, thorough hunger while the vines redoubled their efforts. Two thick tendrils pushed inside Sara’s cunt and began to thrust in deep, grinding strokes. Another curled tight around her clit and vibrated. Sara cried out into the kiss, body seizing, orgasm roaring up—

—and the vines stopped.

Everything stopped. The thrusting. The vibration. Even the gentle suction on her nipples ceased. Sara was left stretched and shaking, cunt fluttering around the still tendrils, so close that tears spilled down her cheeks.

Marielle pulled back, lips glistening. “No.”

A broken sob tore from Sara’s throat. The worshippers murmured approval.

The priestess walked among them again, unhurried, leaving Sara suspended in perfect, agonizing denial. Every few minutes she would return, touch Sara with deliberate cruelty—fingers circling a nipple, a single slow stroke through her soaked folds, a soft command whispered against her ear—and the vines would surge back to life, driving her to the brink once more before freezing her there.

Sara stopped forming coherent pleas. She simply wept and trembled and dripped, her magic sparking uselessly along her skin. The vines drank that too.

Near the third hour, Marielle returned and stood between Sara’s spread thighs. She had removed her skirt. Her own sex was bare, flushed, glistening.

“You have done well,” she said, voice almost kind. “You held longer than most. But you are not finished.”

She stepped in. The vines shifted, lifting Sara’s hips, angling her. Marielle pressed close, grinding her wet cunt against Sara’s in a slow, filthy rhythm. At the same time she gave a soft command, and the vines resumed their work—thrusting, vibrating, sucking—while the priestess used Sara’s bound body for her own pleasure.

Sara shattered.

Or she would have. The vines clamped down at the exact moment of no return, turning the climax into a long, shuddering, ruined pulse that wracked her body without ever cresting properly. She sobbed through it, cunt spasming helplessly against Marielle’s, while the priestess rode the contractions to her own smooth, powerful orgasm.

When it was over, Sara hung limp in the vines, ruined and still aching, need scraped raw.

Marielle stroked her cheek.

“The vines will keep you until dawn,” she said. “They will edge you every time you begin to soften. You will not come again tonight. Tomorrow, if you still wish to serve, you will return to my private chambers… and we will discuss a more permanent arrangement.”

She kissed Sara once more, soft this time, and walked away into the crowd.

The vines stirred.

Sara, still bound and open beneath the moons, felt the first new tendril slide between her legs and begin again.

*******************************************************************************

Still aching for more?

My full length erotic novel "Mara: An erotic lesbian bdsm romance of control, devotion, and surrender" is available now on Amazon Kindle & free on Kindle Unlimited:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G44XSMGC

And if you’d like ongoing short stories, Patreon exclusives, and deeper access to my work, you can find everything here:

http://patreon.com/Ivory_Blackwood

Thank you for reading!