Locked · Part 2 (2/2)
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Amelie turned toward her, close enough for Jeanette to feel her breath. She lifted a hand and traced Jeanette’s lips with her fingertip, slow and tender, pausing at the corner as if to remind her who controlled the pace. Jeanette’s lips parted, but no kiss came—Amelie only moved lower, outlining the lines of her chin with a delicate firmness that made Jeanette shiver.
Then Amelie leaned in and nibbled her ear. Soft at first, then sharper, tugging with her teeth while her other hand slid into Jeanette’s hair. Fingers tightened. A sudden pull—enough to make Jeanette gasp and arch against her, breath hitching as her scalp tingled under the pressure.
Her breasts lifted with each breath, the thin cotton of her sundress clinging. Amelie’s hand shifted down, circling one breast with maddening patience. Never touching her nipples, only teasing around the edges, close enough to make Jeanette ache. Jeanette whimpered, chest heaving, straining for contact that never came.
When Amelie finally bent and closed her mouth around a nipple through the dress, Jeanette cried out. The fabric dampened the sharpness of her teeth, but the pressure came through, warm and relentless. Her nipple hardened instantly, painfully, a peak straining against the fabric. Amelie bit softly, then harder, until Jeanette’s legs trembled and heat flooded between her thighs.
Then the hand slipped under her skirt.
Nails grazed her inner thighs, sharp enough to sting, scratching trails that made Jeanette squirm. The touch crept higher, higher, until it pressed against the junction of her legs—against the steel shield of her belt. The fingernails tapped, scraped lightly against the metal. The sound was cruel, echoing in Jeanette’s ears like laughter.
She flushed hot, burying her face against Amelie’s neck, grinding helplessly against her thigh instead. The pressure there was real, solid, but it gave her no relief—every thrust of her hips only reminded her how trapped she was, how the shield blocked every angle. No touch, no friction where she needed it. The belt was immovable, absolute.
She whimpered, desperate. “Please, Amelie… please, I need—”
Amelie only smiled, her teeth catching Jeanette’s earlobe again. One hand still tangled in her hair, keeping her tilted, submissive. The other tapped at the steel with lazy satisfaction.
The key glinted between Amelie’s breasts, hanging on its chain, visible every time Jeanette glanced down. It swayed gently as Amelie moved, catching the light. Jeanette couldn’t stop staring at it—her salvation, her undoing, her proof of being owned. So close she could almost touch it, but not hers. Never hers.
Her cunt throbbed, sealed away, throbbing against unyielding steel. The ache grew sharper the more she pressed, the more her body begged for sensation that couldn’t come. Her cheeks burned, tears pricked her eyes, caught between arousal and humiliation.
She moaned against Amelie’s neck, clung to her desperately, her body trembling with need she couldn’t satisfy. The key brushed Amelie’s skin with every breath.
And Amelie touched Jeanette’s chin again, lift her head up until she could look her in the eye. Her thumb brushing along Jeanette’s jawline, slow like she was studying her. Like Jeanette was hers now—and she was still deciding what to do with her.
“I really like you this way,” she said softly. Her voice had weight now. Command. Pleasure.
“Needy.” Her thumb traced over Jeanette’s bottom lip. “Helpless.” A slow smile. “So sweet.”
Her hand slid up to stroke Jeanette’s cheek, fingers curling behind her ear. Gentle, affectionate even—but Jeanette could feel it. The power. The control. It was real now, and Amelie liked how it felt in her hands.
Jeanette swallowed hard. Her throat was dry. She tried to speak, but it came out thin, cracked.
“Please…”
Just that. Nothing else. Not even a full sentence.
Amelie’s smile widened. Not cruel, but full of knowing.
“Not now,” she said, shaking her head. “Not yet. Maybe not today.”
Then she tugged upward on Jeanette’s collarbone, pulling her up to kneeling, and then down again—guiding her with quiet pressure, until Jeanette knelt between her thighs.
It wasn’t a request.
Jeanette understood.
This wasn’t about her. Not now. Not yet. This was Amelie’s moment. Amelie’s pleasure. Her right.
Jeanette pressed her face forward. Her hands found Amelie’s thighs, warm and smooth under soft cotton. She pushed the fabric aside and buried herself in her lover’s scent—already damp, already wanting.
She opened her mouth and worked.
Her tongue was eager, slow at first, learning the rhythm Amelie liked. Her hands steadied Amelie’s hips, her own body trembling with denied need, knowing she would get nothing unless Amelie decided to give it. The belt didn’t even allow her to grind. The crotch shield held her closed, locked, unreachable.
But she licked harder.
She used her fingers and explored, found the spot inside that made Amelie tense and moan, and when Amelie grabbed her hair and pulled her closer, Jeanette whimpered against her skin, needy and obedient.
This was how she’d make it up to her.
This was what Amelie deserved.
The week passed slowly. Each day dragged, and Jeanette felt every hour in steel.
Amelie kept her locked. Jeanette had to learn, fast, how to live in it.
Peeing in it was a challenge—at first. The steel crotch plate had angled drain holes, but no direct access. If she didn’t sit just right, it splashed everywhere. She learned to sit far back on the bowl, legs wide. Learned to hold herself still, to let the belt drain cleanly.
Shitting was worse. Messier. More humiliating.
At work, she could only manage it properly in the disabled bathroom—more privacy, a bowl and a washbasin. She cleaned herself there. Soap, water, rinse. It took forever. But she had no choice. And steel, at least, was easy to keep clean.
At home, it was different.
Each night, Amelie unlocked her to wash—but only after shackling her hands behind her back. Plastic cuffs, firm and close. Jeanette stood in the bathtub, hands bound, chest rising and falling, as Amelie knelt and unlatched the crotch shield.
She never rushed.
Warm water, a washcloth, fingers that lingered a little too long but never offered relief. Jeanette whimpered every time. She was wet. Always wet. Denial made her body ache.
And Amelie loved it.
She’d reattach the belt, tighten it, check the fit. Lock it with that familiar click. Then, and only then, after the key had settled between her breasts again, would she unshackle Jeanette’s arms.
Jeanette never touched herself. Never even got close.
Amelie didn’t allow it.
She slept locked, woke locked. She made breakfast, served coffee, worked, with the key hanging visibly between Amelie’s breasts.
Every night, Jeanette served her. Mouth, fingers, soft lips and long licks. She gave everything.
And got nothing.
By Thursday, she was losing her mind. She’d cry after coming out of the bathroom, belt dripping clean, still locked, still aching. Her cunt throbbed. Her clit pulsed behind sealed padding. Her dreams were wet. She woke in the middle of the night moaning.
But she deserved it. That’s what she told herself.
She’d cheated. Betrayed Amelie. Amelie should treat her like this.
Still, each time she looked at her reflection—the belt tight around her waist, covering her sex like a locked puzzle box—she shivered. Was this forever? Would she ever be trusted again?
Then, Friday night.
Amelie took the leather cuffs, and led her to the bed.
Jeanette’s heart jumped.
Amelie pushed her down, face to the pillows, and shackled her wrists to the headboard—tight. Jeanette could barely move. Couldn’t roll over. Couldn’t reach for anything.
Then, slowly, Amelie unlocked the belt.
The crotch shield came off revealing skin and sweat. Jeanette moaned when the air touched her.
God, she was soaked.
Amelie laughed, low and cruelly pleased.
“I barely touched you and you’re dripping.”
Jeanette whimpered.
“Please…”
But Amelie only ran her fingers along her folds, teasing, spreading her open, dipping just enough to make her legs shake. She pressed her mouth in once—slow, deep, deliberate—and then pulled back.
“No,” she whispered, licking her lips. “Not yet.”
She kept Jeanette like that.
Open. Needy. Cuffed.
She played with her, kept her wet, made her beg.
But she never let her come.
Now it was her turn to bring a box with toys. The box was black and glossy, no branding, just a magnetic clasp. When Amelie brought it out, Jeanette’s stomach clenched. She knelt on the bed, still cuffed, still naked but for the waist belt, now opened and resting beside her on the sheets. Her arms ached. Her thighs trembled. She was already soaked—still soaked—from being teased for days.
Amelie opened the box in front of her, slow, deliberate and let her see the contents.
Inside: a double-ended strap-on. Already assembled.
Jeanette stared.
The shaft facing her was thick. Matte silicone, ridged subtly along the shaft, the head broad and blunt. It gleamed in the soft light of the bedroom. The other side was shaped to fit comfortably inside Amelie, sculpted to sit snug against her body, and held in place by a wide, black belt that fastened low on her hips.
Amelie didn’t say anything.
She just stepped out of her shorts, spread her legs slightly, and ran two fingers down her own slit. Wet already. She moaned softly at her own touch, the kind of sound that made Jeanette’s toes curl.
She pressed the internal side of the toy into herself slowly, hips flexing, then adjusted the belt, pulled it tight. It settled into place like it belonged to her. Comfortable. Natural.
Then she turned toward Jeanette.
Her face was unreadable.
Amelie climbed onto the bed and got behind her, kneeling between her legs. She slapped Jeanette’s ass hard, one cheek then the other, and grabbed her hips.
“Up,” she said.
Jeanette obeyed, shaky, her knees spread, ass in the air, face down on the mattress. Her wrists still locked to the headboard. Her breath came fast and shallow.
Amelie pushed her thighs further apart.
“Wider,” she murmured. “Good girl.”
Fingers touched her. Slid through her soaked folds, spread her apart, slicked her up. The exposure made Jeanette burn with shame.
“You’re dripping. Fucking perfect.”
Then Jeanette felt it—the blunt, too-wide head of the dildo pressing against her.
It wasn’t teasing.
There was no gentle easing in, no warning.
Amelie drove it into her.
Jeanette cried out. Loud.
It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. But it strained her. It was too big. Too long. The kind of fullness that pressed into her guts and made her knees go weak. Her body tried to clench, to resist, but Amelie didn’t give her the time.
“Take it,” Amelie whispered into her ear, one hand gripping Jeanette’s hip tight, the other flat on her back. “You want it like this, don’t you?”
She fucked her. Hard.
The bed creaked with every thrust, Jeanette’s arms pulled tight against the cuffs, her mouth open in a constant moan. Her hips rocked back despite herself, chasing the rhythm. Each slam drove the thick shaft deeper. Jeanette felt split, stretched, filled in the way that made her thoughts shatter.
She came hard—knees shaking, cunt clenching helplessly around the thick silicone. But Amelie didn’t stop.
She kept going. Riding her through it. Then built her up again. Another orgasm. Then another.
Jeanette sobbed into the mattress, overwhelmed, her body twitching.
And through all of it—shame.
She felt used. Handled. Fucked like a toy.
This was the kind of sex she had chased when she went out dressed to be taken. The kind that didn’t ask what she wanted, only what she could take.
Amelie gave it to her now.
Not because she was angry. Not even because she enjoyed it—though maybe she did. It was because Jeanette could feel it: Amelie believed this was what she needed.
Something raw. Transactional. Maintenance.
A controlled release. Dosed. Forced.
And it worked. Jeanette came again, hoarse and trembling, leaking and stretched wide.
But she never stopped feeling like she was being punished.
Jeanette’s face was buried in the sheets, her skin slick with sweat and tears, her thighs trembling so violently she could barely keep her knees under her.
She was spent.
Her body had no more to give—no strength, no voice, not even a moan. Her cunt throbbed around the enormous shaft still lodged inside her, clenching weakly, fluttering against the silicone that filled her like it had been molded for no other purpose but to ruin her.
But Amelie hadn’t moved.
She still knelt behind her, hands resting lightly on Jeanette’s hips, quiet, present. The dildo remained buried deep, and Jeanette couldn’t relax. She couldn’t breathe. Every twitch, every shift of her hips made her feel the sheer size of it—how her body still hadn’t adjusted. How she was still stretched to its shape.
She whimpered softly.
Amelie leaned down and kissed the small of her back. Then, finally, finally, began to pull out.
Slow. Deliberate. Unforgiving.
Jeanette gasped as the thick shaft slid free. Her cunt clung to it, still twitching, folds puffy and wet, muscles aching from the abuse. When it finally slipped out with a wet, obscene sound, she collapsed onto the bed, shaking with relief—but the belt came next.
She heard the familiar clink of steel. Felt the cold kiss of the waistband around her hips.
Amelie said nothing.
She worked silently. Wiped her down with a warm cloth, just enough to clean the worst of the mess—then positioned the shield back over her aching slit, tightened the belt, pulled the rear band snug again.
Click.
Jeanette groaned.
There would be no further release. No freedom. Her cunt, swollen and sore, would now be trapped again—sealed in, pressed and denied. No air. No touch. Just pressure, heat, and the ache of what had been done to her.
And then came the cuffs.
Amelie unbuckled them with quiet efficiency. Jeanette’s arms dropped limply to her sides, weak, sore, marked.
“Up,” Amelie said softly.
Jeanette turned her head, eyes cloudy.
Amelie held the strap-on by the base, the thick shaft glistening. Still warm. Still wet.
She didn’t argue. She leaned in. Opened her mouth. Began to lick.
Her tongue dragged slowly along the shaft, tasting herself—raw, spent, sour, thick. Her cheeks burned. Her thighs clenched under the steel, already rubbing against the belt again. Her own taste filled her mouth, and she swallowed it, humiliated, owned.
She licked until it was clean.
Only then did Amelie nod toward the bathroom.
“Go clean yourself,” she said. “And make yourself pretty.”
Jeanette didn’t answer. Just stumbled off the bed, legs weak, belt tight around her waist and between her thighs. The walk to the bathroom was a cruel reminder of everything—of her sore cunt, of the locked shield brushing her folds with every step.
She washed quickly. Not properly. There was no proper way with the belt on. She used the hand shower, careful with angles, shivering from the pressure on her sore skin. Her face flushed constantly, remembering the dildo in her mouth, the taste still lingering. She brushed her teeth twice. Then did her makeup, soft and neutral. Brushed her hair. Put on a clean camisole and panties, even though the panties just clung around the belt, stretched awkwardly.
She came back to the bedroom.
Amelie sat on the bed, fresh and calm. Clean. Her hair was brushed. She wore a soft nighty, lilac cotton, sleeveless and short. She looked so gentle, suddenly—so normal. Her legs were curled beneath her, and the strap-on was gone, already cleaned and boxed.
Her expression had changed entirely.
Warm. Still dominant—but human again.
“We need to talk,” she said softly, patting the bed beside her.
Jeanette stood in the doorway, trembling in chastity, knees still sore, cunt aching, shame sitting deep in her stomach.
And nodded.
Amelie didn’t speak right away.
She just looked at Jeanette—really looked. Her eyes were soft now, but there was weight behind them. Thought. Intention. Everything about her felt steady again, like gravity had returned to the room.
Then she touched Jeanette’s hand. Interlaced their fingers, palm to palm.
“I love you,” she said.
Jeanette swallowed hard.
“I hope I got it right.”
Amelie reached into her nighty’s neckline and drew out the chain. The key to the belt glinted in the soft light. It hung between them, delicate and dangerous.
“I don’t know what kind of darkness you carry,” she went on, voice low. “I don’t know which demons ride you, Jeanette. Or what they whisper when you’re alone. But this week… I hoped I fed them what they needed. Enough to keep them quiet.”
She lifted the key, let it sway. It caught the light. Jeanette stared at it like it might burn her.
“You want me to keep that, do you?”
Jeanette nodded, instantly. No hesitation. Her breath hitched, her chin trembled, and tears welled up without warning.
“Yes,” she croaked. “I must never have it. Never.”
She looked down, ashamed, afraid she’d said too much. Her voice broke.
“Keep it. Keep me. Keep my cunt safe—for me.”
Amelie looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then she nodded, slowly.
“I didn’t feel safe,” she admitted. “Not at first. When I saw you come home like that—used, smelling like her—I wanted to punish you. I wanted you to hurt. Not because you cheated, but because it scared me. It made me think I couldn’t trust you.”
She paused, exhaled. Her fingers squeezed Jeanette’s.
“But I didn’t let that control me. I could have gone further. I thought about it. But I held the line.”
Jeanette nodded. That was Amelie. Always Amelie. Control. Restraint. The voice of reason even in chaos. She didn’t scream, didn’t throw things. She just made decisions.
And one of those decisions was now Jeanette’s steel belt.
Jeanette wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to speak, voice shaky.
“I deserved it,” she said. “Everything. I went out because I felt worthless. I let someone touch me because I thought that was all I had to offer.”
She blinked. More tears. Quiet, steady.
“But when you locked me in… when you didn’t let me have what I wanted—it made me feel like I wasn’t broken. That you could still protect me, even from myself. That you still wanted me.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I liked it. No. But I deserved it. Being denied. Being made to serve. Being yours.”
She laughed a little—wet, helpless.
“I don’t even know if I’m crying because I’m sorry or because I’m happy.”
Amelie leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
“Maybe both.”
Jeanette nodded.
And let herself cry.
Amelie reached for the leather cuffs again. Jeanette didn’t resist—she turned and offered her wrists, wordless, willing.
The soft click of the buckles was familiar now, almost comforting. Amelie drew her arms behind her back and secured them, snug and firm, the way she always did. Not tight enough to hurt—just enough to say you’re not in control anymore.
Then Amelie shifted on the bed, settling into a cross-legged seat, the nighty slipping over her thighs. She looked at Jeanette and opened her arms.
“Come here.”
Jeanette knelt and climbed into her lap, awkward with her arms bound, her movement stiff with the belt still wrapped around her waist, her cunt locked and sealed. Amelie guided her down, pulled her close, and Jeanette folded into her—head to shoulder, knees tucked against her side.
Amelie wrapped her arms around her. Held her tight. Warm.
Her hand moved slowly through Jeanette’s hair. Gentle, repetitive strokes. Fingertips tracing soft lines down her spine. A quiet rhythm. The only sound was breath—steady, close, real.
Jeanette melted into her.
Arms bound. Cunt locked away. Nothing left to give. Nothing expected of her.
Just held.
Kept.
Safe.
Amelie smelled like lavender and soap, and the warmth of her body soaked into Jeanette’s skin like sunlight after rain. Her cheek pressed into Amelie’s collarbone. The key rested between them, cool against her breast. A promise.
She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t need to ask for anything. She wasn’t afraid of wanting too much. Amelie had her. Would keep her.
It was perfect.
Locked · Part 2 (2/2)
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