She cried. The tears, falling from the corners of her eyes, ran down her temples and into her hair. The 'I-am-tied-up-in-a-bathtub-and-I-cannot-move' reality that was both terrifying and, God help her, arousing.
He broke the kiss. His face, still wet, lifted. He looked down at her. At the tied hands. At the raised breasts. At the body, spread beneath him in the warm water.
His hand found her breast. He kneaded. The flesh, soft and heavy, deformed under his fingers. His thumb found the nipple. Pressed. Rolled. The nub, stiff and sensitive, was worked.
"It hurts," she whispered. The words were not about pain. They were about the 'please-be-gentle' plea that her pride would not let her voice directly. "Slow down."
"Mmph—♡ ah—♡" The moans, escaping despite her efforts, came with each movement of his fingers. Her body, responding to the stimulation, was betraying her. Her hips, under the water, were moving. Grinding against nothing. Seeking.
