Apple of my eye

“Breathe,” I commanded, my voice low and unhurried as I reclined against the cold marble, its chill seeping deliciously into my spine. I’ve adored this feeling—stone beneath flesh—since I was a girl. There’s a sacred power in surrendering to something unyielding.

I was dressed precisely for spectacle: a lacquered black latex bodysuit that gleamed like oil in candlelight, sculpting every inch of me with impudent precision. Latex leggings traced the long lines of my legs like a second, sin-slick skin. Over it all, a crimson Valentino blazer—structured, decadent, male in cut but wholly mine. My hair was loose, unbrushed, unrepentant. We had agreed: chaos would be the motif.

Theo hovered above me, panting—his exquisite face a study in desperate restraint. A few drops of his sweat fell onto my lips, and I licked them up with a feline flick of the tongue. I tasted salt, youth, and trembling awe. His chin—angular and Grecian—was my next indulgence. I licked him there too, slowly, as though savouring a rare delicacy. What a face. God sculpted it for the sole purpose of watching it break.

I curled my leg around his torso and spun him onto his side, his breath catching with the motion. But then I noticed it—his fingers. The colour. The stillness. “Move your fingers for me,” I said coolly.

He obeyed. They twitched. Satisfactory. “Take another deep breath.”

He rotated slowly, the crimson rope biting deeper with each breath, the cage pressing against him. My tongue had left wet trails on his cheek, intentional desecration, a branding of sorts. Despite his tender age, Theo had been generously endowed—absurdly so. A gift he didn’t know how to wield, nor did he seem to care. That was my pleasure to exploit.

From a silver tray at my side, I plucked a grape and let it roll between my fingers before slipping it past my lips. The scene had my blood warm and low. I wanted more.

“Bite,” I said, lifting an apple next.

He took it greedily, like a piglet who knew it was being fattened for slaughter. And he was—served not for nourishment, but for spectacle, for my amusement, for my appetite. His pale body was bound in red—ropes criss-crossing his chest and thighs like ceremonial offerings. He would wear more than my bite marks tomorrow. There would be bruises in the shape of my will.

“Let’s play with you, piggy,” I murmured, rising to my feet in a slow, deliberate unfurling.

I stopped his spinning. He faced me now—mouth parted, chest heaving, cock imprisoned in that cruel cage, his arms bound tight behind his back. He was trembling, magnificent, helpless.

He was perfect. He was mine

I moved behind him, slowly, so he would hear my heels strike the marble—click, click, click—each step a promise. From the silver decanter, I poured warm oil over his back, letting it drip down the elegant line of his spine, across the ropes, over his hips. It ran like molten gold over his trembling flesh, soaking the fibres that bound him. His body received it like a prayer.

With an intentional snap, I donned black latex gloves. The sound echoed in the chamber like a pistol shot. He flinched.

He could not see me now. Only feel me. Anticipation gathered on his skin like morning dew.

I spread his buttocks with gloved hands—ceremoniously, clinically—and poured a generous ribbon of thick lube between them. It glistened, obscene and beautiful. I pressed a single finger inside, slowly, unrelentingly.

He moaned—guttural, shamed, aroused.

“Stop it,” he gasped, voice muffled by the apple between his teeth. “It’s gross you like this…”

I paused, my gloved hand deep in his most vulnerable place, my body unmoved.

“I do like this,” I said, softly, cruelly. “And you hate that I know you do too.”

I meant every word. Because I wished Theo was someone else. Someone worthy of his beauty. How tragic—how violently frustrating—that a face sculpted by gods was wasted on a boy who didn’t feel. Not like others I’ve had. Not like those whose pain sang back to me in perfect harmony.

With Theo, it was never really about sex—it was about shape. About roles. About the delicate ecstasy of control and surrender. Our scenes were philosophical sparring matches dressed in leather and rope. He wanted to be made small. To be reminded of his place—beneath me, beneath everything. And I wanted to annihilate him in stilettos. To drive my heel so far down his throat he’d choke on his obedience.

He bit into the apple like an obedient beast, unable to speak, but his moans told me everything. I worked him with a slow, ruthless rhythm—just one finger, then two—until his body betrayed him again. Until the cage looked inhumanly tight, until his sweat rained from his temples, until his hips quivered like a string drawn too far.

I removed the gloves with theatrical grace, each finger sliding free with a soft hiss of latex. Then I returned to the floor—our altar—and laid beneath him again, face to face.

His eyes were rimmed in tears, delicate pools threatening to fall. So I licked them. Slowly. Reverently.

“Your pain,” I whispered against his cheek, “tastes like glory.”

And I meant it.

He wasn’t thinking. Not really. His mouth parted impulsively—perhaps to plead, perhaps to praise—and the apple slipped from between his lips and fell to the floor with a tragic, hollow thud.

The silence that followed was electric. His eyes widened. Horror rippled across his beautiful face.

He knew.

“You know I don’t tolerate mistakes,” I said calmly, not raising my voice—for I didn’t need to. “You know, Theo.”

“Forgive me, Master Liz,” he stammered. His voice trembled, cracking at the edges. Good.

I stood, unhurried, and plucked the fallen apple from the floor with gloved grace, then selected a plump strawberry from the tray—its colour rich, vulgar, almost bleeding.

“I once read an erotic novel,” I began, as I so often did mid-scene—my narration another form of control. “The protagonist had a peculiar devotion. She would insert fruit into her anus, then take a Polaroid of the imprint after. An entire gallery of botanical ghosts.”

I circled him slowly, letting my heels speak their familiar language—click, click, click—until I stood behind him once more. Then smack—I landed a sharp blow to his flawless, gym-sculpted arse. It turned pink instantly. Of course it did. He had the kind of body that made artists weep and dominants hungry.

With reverence and a twisted tenderness, I pressed the strawberry into him. Inch by inch. I watched his breath falter.

“Push it back,” I commanded, voice low and coaxing. “Slowly. We don’t want to lose it, do we?”

He obeyed. Trembling, muttering something unintelligible in French—some desperate, half-lost prayer to a god that wasn’t listening. Not tonight.

“Now,” I said, eyes gleaming as I crouched to his level, “an apple.”

The smirk on my lips was slow and wicked as I reached for him, rotated his restrained body until he was facing me again. I could see the panic in his eyes, mingled with something hotter. He didn’t know if he’d survive this. That was the point.

“That should be something.”

If this left you aching, you’re exactly where I want you. The uncensored version—explicit, exquisite, and forbidden—is waiting at Master Liz’s Patreon. Join me at @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety

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