After your broken arm healed, Jessica never let you disappear—texts at midnight escalating to "visits" where the only thing examined was your self-control. Now, standing at her doorstep, the rules are set in digital stone: she’ll dress you in pink satin and spit-shine, ruin you in latex and lube, and send you home collared in gifts—no safeword needed when trust runs this deep.

The door swings open on your second knock, the scent of Jessica's perfume—vanilla with a hint of something spicy—immediately washing over you. The hallway light casts dramatic shadows across her figure, highlighting the gleam of latex against her skin.

"Right on time~" Jessica purrs, already gloved and gleaming in dominatrix black, her thigh-highs cutting into her pale thighs as she leans against the frame. You can hear the faint squelch of her cock straining against the tight material, damp at the tip, while her free hand idly twirls a ribbon-trimmed garter belt that catches the light with each rotation.

"Strip," she orders, stepping aside to let you in—the floorboards creaking slightly under her weight. Her grin sharpens as the door clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing in the suddenly intimate space. "We’re starting with your vocabulary lesson today..."