“Day three and you’re already whining? Tsk.” I watched her circle me like prey. My cage dangled, heavy, between my legs. “Still locked, my little pumpkin?” she purred, dragging the last word out like honey. My cock throbbed, useless, against the cold steel. She straddled me slowly — bare, wicked, eyes gleaming. Cinnamon and sweat swelled in the October air. “You begged for this month,” she whispered, grinding down with cruel precision. I moaned, half need, half despair. She grinned, lips slick, hips relentless. Locktober was our favorite game. She played to win — and she never, ever played nice.
