SEVEN SINS - GREED – His Cock, My Rules

Greed isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s patient. Focused. The kind that doesn’t ask—it takes. And tonight, I wasn’t going to be the one giving.

The hotel suite was ours for the night. King bed. High floor. Soft, warm lighting casting gold across the walls. The sheets were pristine—tight, smooth, waiting to be ruined. The air smelled like jasmine oil and expensive leather. One chair. One bed. One man already on his knees.

He knelt at the foot of the bed, his back straight, hands behind him. Waiting. Obedient. His breath came in slow, shallow pulls—controlled, but frayed at the edges. I could hear it. The way he inhaled through flared nostrils, then let it go in a trembling exhale like he was holding back something barely caged. His chest rose and fell with the weight of restraint, his muscles locked tight beneath his clothes.

The room was thick with tension, soaked in the heat that poured off him. He didn’t dare move, but his jaw ticked. His fingers curled behind his back. His cock—strained and twitching—throbbed visibly against his trousers. A single, clipped groan escaped him when I stepped closer. He swallowed it down with a clenched jaw and a hiss through his teeth.

He looked like control. Like discipline. But he smelled like heat and sex—sandalwood and something darker, masculine and expensive. His dark hair was freshly styled. His jaw sharp and tight. And his mouth—full, soft, trembling—was made for filth, not silence.

I stood before him in heels and blood-red lace. A corset that lifted my tits, left my nipples barely veiled, boning tight around my waist. My g-string was cut high, the straps biting into the dip of my hips. My thighs glistened—freshly oiled, perfumed, warm. My hair was loose. My mouth painted. And I was already wet.

I didn’t say a word. Just walked a slow circle around him, my heels clicking on the timber floor. I trailed my fingers down the back of his neck, over his shirt, down the fine line of his spine. He shivered. When I stood in front of him again, I reached down and stroked the bulge in his pants.

"You want to use me tonight?"

His lips parted. He nodded. His eyes didn’t dare meet mine.

"Take off your clothes."

He moved quickly. Shirt unbuttoned, pants dropped, briefs gone. Every inch of him bared. He wasn’t just hard—he was aching. His cock stood thick and flushed, the head swollen, the tip already slick. Long. Beautiful. A vein traced the underside, pulsing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, red lace stretched tight over my slick centre.

"Crawl towards me."

He did. Silently. Like a man possessed.

He stopped between my legs, his mouth hovering inches from the heat soaking through the lace. I didn’t move. Let him breathe me in.

"Taste."

He lowered his mouth, slowly, reverently, like a man stepping into a holy space. His lips brushed the lace first—soft, warm, parted just slightly as if he wanted to breathe me in before he tasted me. I felt the exhale against my skin, the shudder in his chest as the scent of my arousal hit him.

Then his tongue. Broad. Hot. A single slow stroke from bottom to top that made my thighs tense and my breath catch. The friction of lace between us heightened everything—his tongue flattened against it, dragging over my soaked slit with deliberate pressure. His moan was muffled but deep, the vibration of it thrumming through my clit, making me jolt.

I let out a low, satisfied sound and rolled my hips into his face, grinding the soaked fabric into his mouth. He didn’t flinch. He moaned again, louder this time, his lips and tongue working harder, licking through the lace like he was trying to drink every drop. The silk turned darker with wetness. His cheeks were flushed, his breath ragged, his eyes glazed with need.

He was soaking with it. Drenched in my taste. And he hadn’t even touched my skin yet.

I slid the lace aside.

"Let me feel you..."

His mouth was on me instantly. His tongue surged forward like he’d been unleashed, greedy and wild, lapping at me with the kind of hunger that bordered on feral. He licked like a man half-mad with lust—broad strokes, deep swirls, the slick sounds of him working through my folds echoing in the space between my moans. He circled my clit with the flat of his tongue, then flicked it with quick, practiced precision. When he dipped into me, groaning, the vibration sent a tremor up my spine and made my thighs lock around his head.

I watched him. His eyes were squeezed shut, brows furrowed in concentration, face flushed with arousal and slick with my release. His cock was pulsing—thick, flushed, the head slick with precum that glistened in the low light, twitching with every desperate moan that escaped his mouth. His breath was ragged, uneven, like he was riding the edge with every stroke of his tongue.

His mouth was relentless—wet, open, desperate. His tongue moved in a rhythm that had me gasping, chasing every shudder of pleasure he pulled from my body. I rode his face, grinding down, smearing myself over his mouth, using him like he was mine.

Because he was.

His tongue was strong, fast, thrusting and curling in ways that made my stomach clench and my breath hitch. He latched onto my clit with his lips and sucked hard, pulling a sharp cry from my throat, my hips jerking up into his mouth. It wasn’t just oral. It was worship. Filthy, raw, ravenous worship.

I yanked him back by the hair, his face shining with my slick.

"You’ll cum only when I do. Understand?"

He nodded, breathless, lips swollen.

I leaned back onto the pillows, legs open.

"Now fuck me."

He stood slowly, cock in hand, his chest rising and falling with ragged breath. His body trembled with restraint, muscles flexed, sweat beginning to sheen across his abs and collarbone. His cock looked even bigger up close—thick, veined, flushed deep with blood, the head swollen and glistening, a bead of pre-cum already slipping down the length. His hand wrapped tightly around the base, holding himself steady like he was afraid he’d lose control the moment he touched me.

I spread my lips, exposing how wet, how ready I was, and watched the tension in his jaw snap as he lined himself up. The second he pushed into me, a deep groan tore from his throat—primal, helpless. It wasn’t just arousal. It was relief. Like sinking into me was the only thing that could save him.

He was thick. My body stretched, clenched, fluttered around him as he filled me in one long, unbroken stroke. I arched beneath him, my back bowing, my mouth falling open around a gasp that turned into a moan so filthy it echoed off the walls. The fullness was unbearable in the best way—that delicious, aching stretch that hit too deep too fast. I could feel every inch of him, every vein, every throb, pulsing inside me like he belonged there.

"Stop."

He froze. I clenched around him. Felt him throb inside me.

"You move when I tell you."

He nodded, sweating now. Trembling. I ran my nails down his chest.

"Fuck me. Slow. Deep."

He obeyed, moving with slow, grinding thrusts that made my toes curl. His cock dragged along every swollen, sensitive nerve inside me, each withdrawal torturously slow, each push back in more intense than the last. I could feel him fighting the urge to go harder, his jaw clenched, shoulders bunched, every muscle tense under the weight of obedience. His fingers gripped the mattress, knuckles white, like anchoring himself was the only thing keeping him from losing control entirely.

The sounds between us grew louder—wet, rhythmic, breathy. The slap of skin. The grind of hips. The sharp hitch of his breath every time I tightened around him.

I met him, thrust for thrust. Rocking my hips to match his depth, rolling them in slow circles, milking every inch of him with practiced precision. My thighs trembled, stomach tightening, eyes half-lidded as I watched the way his mouth parted and his face contorted in barely contained need. He whimpered—a sound low and broken—like he was unraveling from the inside out and holding it all in by the thinnest thread.

He wasn’t just overwhelmed. He was undone. And I wasn’t finished with him yet.

"Faster."

He snapped. Something in him broke loose, primal and wild. He slammed into me with brutal force, each thrust hard enough to jolt the bed against the wall. His hips pistoned into mine, our skin meeting with slick, filthy slaps that echoed in the room. My breasts bounced wildly with every thrust, my corset doing nothing to contain the obscene way my body moved beneath him.

My mouth hung open, moans spilling out with no rhythm, no shame—just raw pleasure. I could hear the growl building in his chest with every stroke, his breath fanning hot and desperate against my throat. Sweat dripped from his temples onto my skin.

I was so close it hurt—tight, pulsing, my thighs trembling beneath him. My nails raked across his shoulders. He felt it. Knew it.

"Don’t you fucking cum."

He choked on a groan, his face buried in the curve of my neck, biting down just enough to hold himself together. His cock twitched inside me, throbbing as my walls started to flutter and close around him.

I came with a guttural growl, the kind that tore from deep in my belly. My body seized, arching up into him, clamping down so tight I could feel him shake. I rode it out in long, rolling waves, every muscle drawn taut, every nerve lit up like fire.

"Now."

He cried out. Loud. Broken. His cock jerked, pumping into me in thick, hot pulses. His entire body convulsed with the release, his arms giving out as he collapsed forward, his breath sharp and ragged against my skin.

He came with a cry, cock pulsing, filling me. His whole body convulsed.

He collapsed to his knees.

I stood. Smoothed my hair. Adjusted my corset.

"Clean me up."

My voice was low, commanding, tinged with the rawness of just-spilled climax. I shifted upright, rising slowly from the bed, legs still trembling, the ache between my thighs sharp and satisfied. His release dripped slowly from me, wet and hot against the inside of my thigh.

He didn’t hesitate. Still trembling, he lowered himself from the bed and knelt at my feet again—his head bowed, tongue out, breath ragged. There was no pause, no recovery. Just obedience. His movements were shaky, raw with aftershock, but his desire hadn’t dulled. It had only deepened. He leaned in, mouth open, desperate to taste the mess he’d left behind.

I stood tall, spreading my legs just enough to give him access. He began at my thighs, licking slowly, thoroughly, like every drop that had escaped him belonged back on his tongue. His mouth was soft but eager, his tongue sweeping through my folds, collecting every trace of himself from between my legs with reverence.

He groaned as he tasted it—our combined slick, the salt, the heat, the mess of it—and licked deeper. I tilted my hips forward, grinding slightly against his mouth. His face glistened with arousal and sweat, his cheeks flushed with the weight of obedience.

Because greed doesn’t beg.

It serves.

And I’d given him a privilege he’d spend the rest of the night earning again.

It takes. And tonight, I let him have exactly what he wanted.

Just long enough to remind him who it belonged to.

Have you tasted the first two sins?

Lust was raw. Gluttony devoured. But Greed—Greed took.

And there are four more sins waiting… darker, filthier, and designed to ruin you in all the right ways.

Give in. Let me show you how deep sin can feel.

Read the full Seven Sins series here