Sonic woke with a gasp behind the blindfold, wrists straining against silk. The ribbons held. His ankles, his chest, his mouth—bound, sealed, exposed.

He thrashed once. The bed didn’t budge. Neither did the pressure between his legs.

The door creaked.

Footsteps. Slow. Certain.

Amy’s voice, low and warm: “You always run. But not today.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. Sonic stilled.

Her fingers brushed his thigh. He jerked.

“Mm. Nervous?” She leaned close. Her breath ghosted over his ear. “You should be.”

He tried to speak. The tape muffled it into a whimper.

She laughed—soft, knowing. “Rouge said you’d fight. Said you’d hate this.” Her hand slid higher. “But I know you, Sonic. You don’t hate it. You’ve *wanted* it.”

His hips twitched as her palm pressed against the strip of fabric between his legs.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “So wet already. And you’ve never even touched yourself, have you?”

He turned his head away. Shame burned in his gut. So did heat.

Amy tugged the ribbon on his left nipple. A sharp pull. He arched.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” Her other hand found his right nipple, pinched. “How you watch me? How you freeze when I wear red? When I call you *honey*?”

She straddled him. Her dress rode up. Her thighs locked around his hips.

“I’ve chased you for years,” she said. “No more.”

Her fingers slipped under the thin cloth pressing against his pussy.

Sonic choked on a moan.

“You’re mine today,” she whispered. “Say it.”

He shook his head.

She pressed down. Firm. Steady.

A sound escaped him—desperate, broken.

She leaned in. Lips brushing his ear.

“Say it, and I’ll let you come.”

“...yours.”