Elena lounged on the velvet chaise, watching her young lover Marcus sketch delicate flowers in his notebook. At eighteen, his face still held that boyish charm, his comments always so endearingly naive. "These petals remind me of your smile, Elena," he said with a grin, pencil dancing across the page. She smirked, her sharp mind already plotting. "Darling, your innocence is adorable, but it makes me wonder—what if I tested it with something a bit more... pointed?"
Marcus looked up, puzzled. "Like what? More drawings?" Elena rose, her stiletto heels clicking like promises of pain. "No, love. I want to trample you. Right here, with these heels. Catch you off guard, don't I?" His eyes widened, but he nodded hesitantly. "If it makes you happy, I love you, so okay." He didn't grasp the fire it ignited in her, the way his purity made her pussy throb with anticipation.
She positioned her heel on his chest, pressing down. He winced in pain, but his pants remained flat—no erection, no hardness in his cock. That innocence drove her wild; she felt her own wetness dripping as she shifted weight. "Does it hurt, my sweet boy? Tell me with that witty tongue of yours." Marcus panted, "It stings like a thousand bees, but your laugh makes it worth it." Elena chuckled sharply, "Oh, you're too pure. My ass clenches just thinking how this turns me on while you stay soft."
Jumping lightly, her heel pierced his skin, drawing blood. He cried out, sweating, but still no sign of arousal below. Horny beyond measure, she kicked him hard across the floor like he was nothing. "Thank you for letting a sadistic woman like me make a boy cry," she purred, her pussy wet and dripping from his unbroken innocence. Marcus groaned, "You're amazing, Elena," his voice steady despite the agony, no cum or climax for him, just pure, unwitting devotion that left her panting for more.
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