The Spy Who Fucked Me

She knocks hard enough to rattle the frame, all six-inch black stilettos and black lace pushed up under a silk trench. Says her name’s Lucy Heart, neighbor, Wi-Fi’s dead, big deadline. You open the door wider. She steps past you and the scent hits first—sweet, thick, wrong. The world tips sideways. Next clear memory: you’re zip-tied to the chair in your own bedroom, arms wrenched back, legs spread. She’s already stripped to the lingerie, heels still on, crouching between your knees. No warm-up—she slaps your balls once, twice, watches your cock twitch anyway. When that doesn’t loosen your tongue she peels the thong aside and sinks straight down, tight, wet, deliberate. Every grind of her hips drags another question out of you; every time you stall she rides harder, heels planted, tits bouncing in the half-cup bra. She leans in, blonde hair brushing your face, tells you exactly what she’ll do next if you keep playing hero. She flips you onto the bed, wrists still bound above your head. Blowjob first—slow, filthy, lots of eye contact—then back on top, grinding until you’re gasping her real name. She lets you flip her, lets you slam in from behind while the heels dig into the mattress. Every thrust feels heavier, slower; the pollen keeps you hard but useless for anything else. She cums loud, once, twice, then rolls you onto your back again and finishes you with her mouth, taking the last spurt across her tongue and tits while the VR rig records it all in 180° glory. Card’s already in her clutch by the time your vision clears.