Locktober doesn't have to be about denial. We could just lay you on your back, fasten your wrists to your ankles, leaving you helpless and exposed, yet absolutely focused on your tender pussy, presented and displayed, swollen and sticky, as you pant and rock before it's even been touched.

Even though you implacably trust your captor, have willingly given your limbs to their restraints, your heart beats like a drum, your clit mimics it, standing tall, pulsing in plain sight. It takes no more than the tip of their thumb, stroking up your lips, flicking casually across your engorged clitoris, to have you hyperventilate, make you buck and bray.

Could you actually expel that first orgasm before they've even penetrated you and sheathed themselves fully inside your crimson, needy hole?