DISCLAIMER: All B*ndage scenarios in this video are strictly role playing conducted
by fully consenting adults. This is just for fun

Mya Pleasure tapped her red-tipped nails against the edge of the oak desk, the sound not so much a signal as a warning. Beside her, Katie Kinz’s lips curled into a conspiratorial grin, both women exchanging a silent, electric understanding as they surveyed their prize. Their Sadistic Dom—once the untouchable sovereign of this converted studio dungeon—now found himself cornered by the singularly united ambitions of two of his most enterprising submissives. The evening had begun like any other: a few sharp words, a gloved hand at the nape, a whispered command. Mya and Katie played their part, coy and compliant, but beneath the practiced veneer, a scheme was coalescing, intricate as a spider’s web.

They bided their time. Shadows cast by low-slung sconces danced on the velvet drapes, lengthening as the city outside deepened into night. When the moment ripened—when the Dom, sated with his own omnipotence, let slip the leash of his attentiveness—Mya and Katie pounced. With the flourish of practiced magicians, they produced from behind their backs a delicately folded trophy: a pair of pink, lacy panties, the sort one might expect on a self-consciously girlish debutante, not a man of his imposing stature. The instant before they unveiled it, the Dom’s mask of boredom cr*cked; his lips twitched in vague apprehension. Too late.

Katie walked to him first, holding the panties up like a sacred offering. She didn't ask; she simply pressed the garment to his chest, her eyes daring him to refuse. Mya, circling like a shark, whispered into his ear—promises and threats tangled together, impossible to parse. And in that heady confusion, the Dom hesitated, weighing the cost of resistance against the humiliation laid before him.

Katie seized the moment, her hands gentle but implacable as she drew the panties up, guiding his legs with mock-solemnity. The soft, synthetic lace conformed to him, clinging in all the places that would soon become targets. He shivered, more from indignation than cold, but the act—as symbolic as it was practical—was complete. Mya offered slow applause, leaning in to trace her tongue along his jawline, the taste of victory sweet and metallic in her mouth.

They didn’t stop to savor the tableau; time was their enemy, after all. The St. Andrew’s Cross waited in the far corner like an altar, its dark wood polished to a nervy shine. Together, they steered him backward, the Dom’s veneer of control replaced now by something wild and uncertain. With deft efficiency, Katie buckled his wrists and ankles to the cross’s beams, ensuring there’d be no easy escape. The restraints, lined with lambskin, mocked him with their softness.

Mya and Katie paused, admiring their handiwork. Their Dom—panties askew, muscles tense, eyes narrowed in a mixture of threat and embarrassment—looked less like the unassailable patriarch and more like a beautiful, trembling spirit. The women orbited him, alternating between feather-light caresses and swift, percussive slaps, each touch a calculated escalation. The first slap left a handprint blooming on his thigh; the next, delivered by Katie, produced a noise like the cr*cking of ice.

But this was only the overture. Mya produced from the toy chest a set of n*pple clamps, delicately bejeweled, which she fastened with a reverence that bordered on religious. Katie traced the Dom’s jaw, then, with an unexpected tenderness, kissed the corner of his mouth. The gesture disarmed him, and in the beat of that hesitation, Mya’s hand snaked between his legs. She cupped and squeezed, feeling him flinch and arch against the restraints. The movement made the pink panties ride up further, a fact not lost on either of his captors.

“Color?” Katie asked, her voice pitched low.

“Green,” he replied, something brazen in his tone despite the circumstances.

“Good boy,” Mya murmured, and with that, she twisted the clamps until his breath turned ragged.

They took turns, inventing new t*rments as they went. Katie fetched a riding crop, its tip traced in pink leather to match their theme. She ran it along his ribs, down the line of his thigh, before delivering a series of sharp, staccato strikes that left welts in the shape of parentheses. Mya alternated between ice cubes and candle wax, the extremes of sensation turning the Dom’s skin into a shifting terrain of red, white, and gold. His responses—gasps, snarls, and eventually, pleading—only fueled their creativity.

At one point, Katie fetched a compact mirror from her purse. She held it up so the Dom could see himself: lashed in place, adorned in humiliating finery, cheeks flushed and lips parted in involuntary surrender. The effect was galvanic. Mya leaned in and whispered, “It’s a good look for you,” before pressing the ice cube to the inside of his thigh, smiling wide as he bucked against the restraints.

The hours slipped by, the script unfolding in a dozen unexpected ways. They marked him with lipstick, drew hearts and arrows on his chest with a red Sharpie, and whispered the filthiest compliments into his ear. The balance of power shifted, teetered, then cemented itself in the raw delight of their shared improvisation.

The turning point arrived when Katie, now disheveled and gleaming with sweat, pressed a remote and dimmed the lights further, bathing the room in a saturated blush. Mya approached with a bottle, taking a slow, theatrical sip before pouring a splash onto the Dom’s chest and l*cking it off, her tongue snaking between the clamps and welts. The heat and sting of the spirits made him gasp, a sound muffled as Katie stuffed a silk scarf into his mouth.

With the Dom stilled, the two women stood back, surveying the chaos they’d orchestrated. The cross groaned under his weight, and every shiver traveled down the pink embroidery of the panties, which by now were thoroughly soaked from his t*rment and arousal.

All that remained was to deliver the final bl*w—the culmination of their audacious coup. Katie selected a thin, flexible cane and tapped it against her palm, grinning at Mya across the room. They closed in, mouths close to his ears, and issued their verdict.

“You’re our toy now,” Mya whispered, her finger tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

“Better get used to it,” Katie purred, as she lined up her sh*t and let the cane sing against the back of his thigh.

The Dom’s muffled moan rang out, victorious in its own way, and the room’s energy crackled with a new, precarious order.

With one last, synchronized maneuver, Mya and Katie untethered him, lowering his spent form to the padded bench, where they curled around him in an embrace equal parts possessive and tender. All three were breathless, their bodies shimmering with sweat and satisfaction.

They lay together for a long moment, the lines of dominance and submission tangled but unbroken, the pink panties now a badge of honor rather than humiliation.

The air was heavy with the scent of wax and s*x, and outside, dawn’s pale light crept through the blackout curtains.

At last, Mya sat up, her voice soft but commanding: “Don’t think we’re done with you yet.”

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