#psnsfwrry

The sun beat down in London, a lazy Saturday afternoon in early October. Y/N, however, was anything but lazy. A misplaced tennis ball, a rogue throw during an ill-advised solo practice session, had landed squarely in her next-door neighbor’s yard. And not just any neighbor. Harry.

Harry Styles, the quiet, unassuming man who lived alone in the charming but slightly unkempt house beside hers. Harry Styles who, to the casual observer, was just a regular guy. But to Y/N, Harry was a secret, a thrilling, almost illicit obsession. Because Harry, her very ordinary, very real-life neighbor, was also "Apollo," the most captivating camboy she had ever stumbled upon.

It had been a late night, a random algorithm suggestion, a click born of boredom and curiosity. And then, there he was. Apollo. His face, obscured just enough by shadows and clever angles to maintain a tantalizing anonymity, was nevertheless etched into her memory. But it wasn't just his face, or even his perfectly toned physique, that had hooked her. It was the way he moved, the knowing glances, the husky whispers, the raw, uninhibited passion he exuded. He was everything she never knew she wanted, a fantasy brought to life on her screen.

Ever since that first viewing, her previous go-to content felt flat, uninspired. No other performer, no other scenario, could elicit the same visceral reaction. Apollo had spoiled her, irrevocably. She’d tried, of course. Skimmed through old favorites, ventured into new territories, but it was all just… background noise. Her mind would inevitably drift back to Apollo, to the rhythm of his shows, the specific catch in his breath, the way his tattoos rippled with every flex.

Those tattoos. They were distinct, a constellation of ink across his abdomen, his chest, snaking down his arms. And that was the problem, or rather, the revelation.

She scaled her fence with practiced ease, her eyes scanning the overgrown rose bushes and neglected lawn for the bright yellow of the tennis ball. Her gaze, however, snagged on something else entirely. Harry was shirtless, tending to a stubborn patch of weeds near his back patio. The afternoon sun glinted off his skin, highlighting the very familiar, very specific artistry that adorned his torso.

A gasp caught in her throat. Her hands tightened on the wooden fence post, splinters digging into her palms, unnoticed. It couldn’t be. But it was. The swirl of an intricate butterfly, the delicate script of a forgotten phrase, the bold lines of a panther – they were all there, precisely as they appeared on Apollo. Her Apollo. Her quiet, unassuming neighbor.

A wave of dizzying heat washed over her, a strange cocktail of disbelief, exhilaration, and a potent, almost overwhelming sense of trespass. Her fantasy, her secret obsession, had just collided with her reality. And her reality was now infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more alluring.

From that moment on, Y/N's world shifted on its axis. The fence that separated their yards suddenly felt like an insubstantial boundary, easily permeable. Every casual encounter, every shared glance over the hedge, every mundane exchange about weather or mail delivery, became charged with a thrilling, terrifying undercurrent. She found herself orchestrating "chance" meetings, lingering in her front yard when she saw his car, finding excuses to borrow a cup of sugar she didn't need.

She learned his schedule, the times he left for errands, the hour he usually took out the trash. She'd watch him through her kitchen window, a silent, unseen voyeur, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The innocence of their neighborly interactions now felt like a thinly veiled deception, at least on her part. She knew his deepest, most intimate self, while he knew her only as the girl next door who sometimes threw balls into his yard.

The urge to confess, to somehow acknowledge their shared secret without revealing her own role as a spectator, was almost unbearable. But how? How do you tell your neighbor, "Hey, I watch you get off for money online, and by the way, you're amazing at it"? The absurdity of it made her stomach churn.

Her mission, however, was clear: get closer to Harry. Not just the neighbor Harry, but Apollo Harry. She needed to understand, to reconcile the two personas, to bridge the gap between screen and skin.

One crisp autumn evening, a week after her discovery, a storm rolled in unexpectedly. The power flickered, then died, plunging her house into darkness. She grabbed a flashlight, her mind already racing with possibilities. A power outage was a perfect excuse.

She knocked on Harry's door, her heart doing a frantic dance. "Hey, Harry," she began, feigning a casual air, "my power just went out. Any chance yours is still on? I was hoping to make some tea."

He opened the door wider, a faint glow emanating from within his house. "Come on in, Y/N. Mine's still on for now, but it's flickering. Come wait it out here." His voice, that low, rumbling timbre, sent shivers down her spine. The very voice she'd heard whispering endearments into a camera.

She stepped into his living room, a space that felt both familiar and strangely alien. Familiar from the occasional glimpse through windows, alien because now every object, every detail, was imbued with the weight of her secret knowledge. A half-eaten bowl of cereal on the coffee table, a stack of records by the stereo, a worn armchair with a knitted throw – all mundane, yet all suddenly fascinating.

They talked, small talk about the storm, about their day. Harry was polite, a little reserved, but genuinely friendly. He offered her tea, a blanket, made sure she was comfortable. It was almost unbearable, this proximity, this forced normalcy, when her mind was screaming with the truth.

As the night wore on, the storm raged outside. The wind howled, rain lashed against the windows. And then, Harry's power, too, gave out.

"Looks like we're both in the dark now," he chuckled, lighting a few candles, their soft glow casting dancing shadows on the walls. In the flickering light, his tattoos seemed to come alive, a silent testament to her secret.

The conversation eventually died down. A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the storm. Y/N's mind, however, was anything but silent. It was a whirlwind of thoughts, desires, and anxieties.

"I should probably head back," she said, though a part of her desperately wanted to stay.

"No rush," he replied, his voice soft. "It's pretty wild out there."

She lingered, her gaze falling on a closed door near the back of the living room. His office, she suspected. The place where Apollo came to life. The thought sent a jolt through her.

***

Later that week, she concocted another plan. A flimsy, transparent excuse about needing help moving a heavy plant pot. She knew it was weak, but she was desperate.

"Hey, Harry," she called over the fence, her voice a little too bright. "Could you possibly lend a hand with something? I'm trying to re-pot this huge monstera, and it's practically cemented to the ground."

He smiled, that easy, neighborly smile. "Sure, Y/N. Be right over."

He came, he helped, he was charming and effortlessly kind. As they wrestled with the plant, their hands occasionally brushed, and each touch sent a tremor through her. The scent of him – a mix of fresh air and something uniquely Harry – filled her senses. It was intoxicating.

After the plant was successfully relocated, she offered him a glass of lemonade, an invitation to linger. He accepted. They sat on her porch, talking about their gardens, about their lives. She learned he was a freelance graphic designer, that he loved classic rock, that he had a soft spot for stray cats. Every detail, no matter how small, felt like a precious discovery, a piece of the puzzle that was Harry/Apollo.

She found herself analyzing his every move, every word. Was there a hint of the performative in his gestures? Did his eyes hold that same knowing glint she saw on screen? She was looking for Apollo in Harry, and the more she looked, the more she found it. Or perhaps, the more she convinced herself she found it.

***

One afternoon, as she was "gardening" near the shared fence line, she heard a faint, familiar melody drifting from Harry's house. It was a song she recognized from one of Apollo's shows, a slow, sensual track that always accompanied a particular segment. Her breath hitched. He was listening to it, right now, in his house.

A surge of audacious courage, or perhaps just plain recklessness, propelled her forward. She found a loose board in the fence – a happy accident she'd discovered weeks ago – and slipped through. The yard was empty. His back door was ajar, letting in the cool autumn air.

She knew this was madness. An invasion of privacy, a violation of trust. But the pull was too strong. She had to know. She had to see.

She crept to the back door, her heart thudding like a drum against her ribs. The music was louder now, intertwined with a low, rumbling voice she knew intimately. It was Harry. And he wasn't just listening to music. He was talking. To someone. Or, more accurately, to no one. To the camera.

He was working.

Panic and exhilaration surged through her in equal measure. She was here. In his house. While he was Apollo.

She peeked through the crack in the door. His "studio" was set up in what appeared to be a converted dining room. Soft, colored lights cast a warm glow, illuminating a makeshift set. A sleek, modern webcam sat perched on a tripod. And there, in the center of it all, was Harry. Shirtless, bathed in the glow of the lights, his tattoos stark against his skin.

He was talking, his voice a smooth, captivating murmur. His movements were fluid, deliberate, each gesture designed to entice, to enthrall. He was utterly captivating, utterly Apollo.

Y/N retreated further into the shadows, pressing herself against the wall, hoping the dim light and the intensity of his focus would keep her unseen. But where to go? She couldn't just stand there, a deer caught in headlights. She needed a hiding place, fast.

Her eyes darted around, landing on a half-open closet door just a few feet away. It was a risk, a huge, undeniable risk. But what other option did she have?

With bated breath, she slipped into the closet, pulling the door almost completely shut, leaving just a sliver of an opening to peer through. The smell of his clothes surrounded her – a comforting, familiar scent that now felt overwhelmingly intimate.

From her cramped, dusty vantage point, she watched. And what she saw was more potent, more real, than anything she had ever witnessed on her screen.

He moved with a dancer's grace, his body a canvas for his art. His eyes, in person, held an intensity she hadn't fully appreciated through the lens. He wasn't just performing; he was embodying Apollo, pouring his very essence into the role.

He ran a hand through his hair, a casual gesture that on screen would be magnified, interpreted. He leaned back, the muscles of his abdomen flexing, the tattoos swirling like a living tapestry. He whispered things, intimate things, into the camera, words that were meant for a thousand anonymous viewers, but felt, in that moment, as though they were meant only for her.

Y/N felt a flush creep up her neck, a heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy closet. It was a potent cocktail of shame, arousal, and an almost unbearable tenderness. She was a trespasser, a voyeur of the highest order, and yet, she couldn't tear her eyes away.

He reached for a small, silver object – a prop she recognized from a particularly memorable show. Her breath hitched. This was it. The main event.

He began to use the object, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on the camera, a smirk playing on his lips. Y/N felt her own body respond, a flush spreading through her veins, a tightening in her core. The sounds he made, soft moans, heavy breaths, were raw and unfiltered, amplified by the close quarters of the closet.

She watched him, her neighbor, her secret obsession, fully immersed in his craft. The line between Harry and Apollo blurred, then vanished completely. He was both, undeniably. A man who mowed his lawn and helped with plant pots, and a man who brought fantasies to life for strangers, for her.

The air in the closet grew thick, heavy with the scent of him, the sound of his pleasure. Y/N felt an overwhelming wave of something she couldn't quite name – admiration, desire, a profound sense of connection to this man, who was so close, yet so utterly unaware of her presence.

She was trapped, not just in the closet, but in the intoxicating reality of her secret. And as he reached his peak, his body arching, his voice a guttural cry that echoed in the small space, Y/N felt herself unraveling, a willing captive to the spectacle before her.

The show ended as abruptly as it began. Harry slumped forward, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He reached for a towel, wiping his face, then ran a hand through his hair, a familiar, almost vulnerable gesture.

He began to dismantle his setup, the colored lights dimming, the equipment being carefully packed away. The magic, the illusion, slowly receded, leaving behind only Harry, a man cooling down after a demanding performance.

Y/N remained frozen, every muscle screaming with tension. How long could she stay here? What if he opened the closet? What if he found her? The shame would be unbearable, the fallout catastrophic.

She heard him move around the room, the clinking of objects, the soft thud of a chair being pushed back. Then, silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.

Had he left? Or was he still there, just out of sight?

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She strained her ears, listening for any sign of movement. Nothing.

Slowly, carefully, she nudged the closet door open a fraction more, just enough to get a wider view. The room was empty. He was gone.

A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled her knees, washed over her. She could breathe again. She could move.

She crept out of the closet, her legs wobbly, her mind still reeling. The room felt different now, imbued with the echoes of his performance, the ghost of Apollo. She glanced at the webcam, now just a piece of technology, no longer a portal to a secret world.

She had seen it. She had been there. She had witnessed the transformation, the art, the raw vulnerability of her neighbor. And now, she had to escape, to disappear as silently as she had arrived.

She tiptoed to the back door, her heart still pounding. The rain had stopped, but the air was cool and damp.

Just as her hand brushed the doorknob, a voice, calm and laced with an unnerving knowingness, cut through the quiet.

"Leaving so soon, Y/N?"

She froze, every cell in her body screaming. Slowly, she turned, her eyes meeting Harry's. He was standing in the doorway that led to the rest of the house, leaning against the frame, a towel slung low around his waist. His hair was damp, slightly disheveled, and his eyes, those intense, knowing eyes, were fixed on her. There was no anger there, no shock, only a quiet, unsettling amusement.

"Harry!" she stammered, her voice a reedy whisper. "I, uh… I just… my ball… the fence… I was looking for my tennis ball." The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.

He pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow step into the room. The scent of him, fresh from a quick shower, mingled with the lingering musk of his performance. It was intoxicating and suffocating all at once. "Your tennis ball," he repeated, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "And you found it… in my closet?"

Her cheeks flamed. There was no escaping this. No amount of feeble excuses would work. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I shouldn't have… I didn't mean to… I just… I don't know what I was thinking." Her gaze dropped to her feet, unable to meet his eyes. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her.

He walked closer, stopping just a few feet away. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "You know, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to that familiar, husky register, "most people just knock when they want to come over."

She winced, her humiliation complete. "I know. I'm so, so sorry. It was wrong. I'll go." She made to move, but he didn't budge, effectively blocking her path to the door.

"Wait," he said, and there was a new note in his voice, something that sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up, hesitantly. His eyes, dark and fathomless, held hers. "You've seen the show." It wasn't a question.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Yes," she admitted, the single word barely audible.

He took another step, closing the distance between them. Her heart hammered a frantic beat against her ribs. He reached out a hand, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he would grab her, reprimand her. Instead, his fingers gently grazed her jawline, sending a jolt of electricity through her. His thumb stroked her skin, a feather-light touch that left a trail of fire.

"And what did you think?" he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was mesmerized, caught in his gaze, unable to form a coherent thought. "I… I thought it was… incredible." The truth, raw and unfiltered, finally escaped.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, breathtaking smile that transformed his features. "Incredible, huh?" He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Well, Y/N," he whispered, his voice laced with an undeniable seduction, "how would you like a private showing?"

Her breath hitched, a sudden, delicious terror blooming in her chest. A private showing. The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken possibilities. Her mind, still reeling from the events of the last hour, struggled to catch up. Was this a trick? A cruel joke? Or was this… everything she had secretly yearned for?

"A… a private showing?" she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper, a tremor running through it that she couldn't quite control. "What exactly… what does that mean?"

His smile widened, a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. He leaned back slightly, but his gaze remained locked on hers, a silent challenge, an open invitation. "It means," he said, his voice a low, warm rumble that sent another shiver down her spine, "it means whatever you want it to be, Y/N."

He took her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and led her through a short hallway, past a closed door that likely led to his bedroom, and into another, more private space. This wasn't the brightly lit studio where Apollo performed; this was something else entirely. It was dimly lit, softened by rich, dark colors and plush fabrics. A large, comfortable bed dominated the room, and to one side, a meticulously organized collection of items rested on a dark wooden chest.

Y/N's eyes widened. There, laid out with an almost artistic precision, were various toys and bondage items. Leather straps, soft ropes, shimmering cuffs, feathered ticklers, and an array of more intriguing, less identifiable objects. Her cheeks flushed, but a flicker of excitement, hot and undeniable, flared within her. This was real. This was happening.

Harry watched her, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Take your time," he murmured, his voice a silken invitation. "Anything catch your eye?"

Her gaze drifted over the assortment, a mix of curiosity and a thrilling trepidation. She pointed to a pair of soft, velvet cuffs, then to a thin, supple riding crop. Her finger hesitated over a blindfold made of what looked like silk.

Harry nodded, gathering the selected items with an easy grace. "Excellent choices," he said, his smile deepening. He moved closer, the scent of him – that unique blend of clean air and something musky and intoxicating – enveloping her. "Tell me, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a low thrum against her ear, "what are you curious about tonight?"

"Everything," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "I'm curious about everything with you, Harry."

His eyes darkened, a flash of raw desire igniting within them. He didn't speak, but the message was clear. He was going to show her.

He led her to the bed, his movements unhurried, deliberate. He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "Relax, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Just let go."

And she did. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the intoxicating sensation of his touch, his scent, his presence. His hands, warm and skilled, began to explore her, awakening every nerve ending. He kissed her, deeply, passionately, drawing a moan from her lips.

His mouth trailed from hers, down her jaw, and along the curve of her neck, leaving a scorching path of desire. Each touch was deliberate, each kiss a slow, consuming fire. He unhooked her bra, the delicate lace falling away to reveal her breasts, which immediately peaked and hardened under his gaze. He suckled gently, then more urgently, eliciting soft cries from her. His hand slid down her stomach, tracing the sensitive skin, until his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her pants.

The riding crop, which had been resting on the bedside table, was now picked up by Harry. He held it lightly, almost reverently. "This," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rasp, "is for a different kind of sensation." He didn't use it to strike, not yet. Instead, he stroked the supple leather along her inner thigh, a teasing caress that made her gasp. The unexpected lightness of the touch, the anticipation of something more, was exquisitely potent. He continued this slow, deliberate exploration, making patterns on her skin with the crop, each pass sending a fresh wave of shivers through her. It was a dance of control and surrender, a silent promise of pleasure yet to come.

He then moved to the velvet cuffs, gently testing their fastenings. "These," he explained, his fingers brushing against her restrained wrists, "are for a beautiful kind of helplessness. To feel completely at my mercy, to let go of every inhibition." He adjusted them slightly, ensuring they were comfortable but firm. He leaned down, his lips almost touching her ear. "Do you like feeling helpless, Y/N?" he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. She could only nod, her voice caught in her throat, lost in the overwhelming sensations he was creating.

His attention then returned to the blindfold she had pointed to, the silk shimmering softly in the dim light. He held it up, letting the fabric drape. "And this," he said, his eyes darkening with a mischievous glint, "is for intensifying everything. When one sense is taken away, the others awaken, become sharper, more profound." He didn't put it on her immediately. Instead, he brushed the soft silk across her eyes, teasing her with the promise of darkness, of heightened awareness. The mere suggestion of losing her sight made her internal landscape explode with anticipation.

He kissed her eyelids, then her forehead, his touch infinitely tender, yet undeniably powerful. "You chose well, my curious Y/N," he murmured, his voice laced with a playful adoration. "Each item a key to unlocking a different layer of pleasure." He took his time, allowing her to fully absorb the weight and meaning of each object, each potential experience. He was a master of his craft, not just in front of a camera, but here, with her, in the intimate confines of his bedroom. He was teaching her, guiding her, showing her the vast landscape of her own desire.

He slowly, deliberately, picked up the silk blindfold once more. "Are you ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice soft but firm, giving her one last chance to object, to pull back from the edge of this new, thrilling world. She didn't hesitate. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and trusting, filled with an eagerness that surprised even herself. "Yes, Harry," she breathed, her answer a testament to the intoxicating power he held over her. "I'm ready."

With a gentle touch, he tied the blindfold around her head, plunging her into a world of darkness. The sudden absence of sight immediately sharpened her other senses. The scent of him – clean, musky, undeniably Harry – became more potent, filling her lungs. The feeling of the soft velvet cuffs on her wrists intensified, a constant reminder of her exquisite captivity. Every brush of air against her skin, every subtle shift of the bed beneath her, became a significant event.

"Good," he whispered, his voice now sounding closer, more intimate without the visual distraction. "Now, let's explore what lies beyond sight." His hands returned to her body, his touch now more assured, more possessive. He caressed her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were taut and aching. He trailed his fingers down her stomach, his touch feather-light, creating a delicious torment that made her arch into his touch. 

The riding crop was still present, its light caress on her inner thigh becoming a rhythmic tease, a precursor to something more. She could hear his breathing, a low, steady rhythm that mirrored the frantic beating of her own heart. The darkness amplified everything, every sensation, every sound, every whispered word, turning the experience into an immersive symphony of pleasure. She was no longer just watching Apollo; she was a participant in his private show, the star of her own unfolding fantasy.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Begging for what, Y/N?" he murmured, his voice a low, teasing growl that vibrated through her very bones. "Tell me what you want, and maybe, just maybe, Apollo will grant your wish." He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a fresh, undeniable wave of desire crashing over her, making her tremble even harder. Her breath hitched, a fragile sound lost in the growing intensity of the moment.

His fingers, with agonizing slowness, delved lower, finding the throbbing, aching core of her desire. He circled the sensitive flesh, teasing, caressing, pushing her closer to the precipice of release, only to pull back at the last possible second. 

Each withdrawal was a cruel, exquisite torment, drawing ragged moans of frustration and pleasure from deep within her throat. The rhythmic pat-pat-pat of the riding crop against her outer thigh was a constant, almost hypnotic counterpoint to the wild beat of her heart. Each light tap, barely more than a whisper of contact, sent a shockwave through her already heightened senses, making her arch into his touch. 

She writhed beneath him, a prisoner of her own unleashed passion, completely and utterly at his mercy, desperate for a release that felt perpetually out of reach. Her hips bucked instinctively, a silent plea for more, for everything.

"Please, Harry, please," she gasped, her voice raw, desperate, barely recognizable even to herself. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, born not of sorrow, but of an overwhelming need. "I want... I want you. All of you. I'm begging you, Harry, please... take me." The words tumbled out, unbidden, from the depths of her soul, a complete surrender to the masterful control he exerted over her body and mind. 

She clawed at his shirt, her nails digging into the fabric, a silent testament to the ferocity of her longing. Every nerve ending in her body screamed for him, for the exquisite agony to finally culminate in blissful oblivion.

Harry’s low chuckle rumbled against her, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. "You want all of me, Y/N?" he breathed, his voice thick with a promise of dark delights. "You got it. But be warned, little voyeur, Apollo doesn’t hold back. You asked for the show, now prepare for the performance of your life."

He ripped off his shirt, a primal growl escaping his throat as his powerful chest, a landscape of intricate tattoos, was revealed. Her hands, still cuffed, instinctively reached for him, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin, the hard planes of his muscles. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers, a raw, almost violent hunger in his kiss. It wasn't the gentle, exploring kiss from before; this was a hungry, possessive taking.

"You’ve watched me, haven’t you?" he rasped against her mouth, his tongue darting out to taste her. "You’ve seen what I can do. Now, you’re going to feel it. Every fucking inch of it." His words, coarse and explicit, sent a thrill of forbidden excitement coursing through her. This was Apollo, unleashed.

He pressed her back into the bed, his body a heavy, delicious weight on hers. The velvet cuffs, a gentle restraint before, now felt like a potent symbol of her complete surrender. He hiked up her pants, his fingers expertly finding the snap, the zipper, tearing them open with a savage grace. She was exposed, vulnerable, and completely enthralled.

His hand, no longer teasing, found her wet, aching core. He plunged two fingers inside her, a gasp escaping her lips. He moved with a brutal efficiency, stretching her, preparing her, his eyes dark with a primal desire that mirrored her own. "Wet for me, little girl," he growled, his voice a guttural demand. "So fucking wet."

Then, he pulled back, his heavy breath hot against her ear. "But not yet," he whispered, a wicked smirk in his tone. "Not until you beg for it properly." He started to use the riding crop, not just to stroke, but to tap, a rhythmic, stinging sensation against her inner thighs, her stomach, drawing sharp breaths from her. Each tap was light, but enough to remind her of his control, to heighten the delicious tension.

"Tell me what you crave, Y/N," he commanded, his voice rough. "Tell me every filthy thought in that pretty little head of yours."

She whimpered, her body writhing against the sheets. "Please, Harry," she begged, her voice thick with unfulfilled desire. "Please, I want your cock. I want it inside me. Fill me, Harry. Fuck me, Apollo!"

His eyes blazed at her words, a raw, hungry fire. "There's my good girl," he purred, a dark satisfaction lacing his tone. He shifted, his hardness pressing against her, a thick, insistent presence. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers once more. "You begged," he whispered, "and Apollo always delivers."

With one powerful thrust, he was inside her, filling her completely. A scream tore from her throat, a mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure. He was bigger, harder, more intense than anything she could have imagined. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust, his hips rocking gently against hers.

Then, he began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed, a relentless, powerful rhythm that drove her wild. He hammered into her, each thrust deep and primal, driving her higher and higher. The riding crop was still in his hand, a light, teasing slap against her ass with each powerful downstroke, a counterpoint to the glorious invasion.

"You like that, slut?" he grunted, his voice raw with his own pleasure. "You like being fucked by Apollo?"

"Yes!" she cried, her voice broken, lost to the sensations. "More, Harry! More! Don't stop!"

He drove into her harder, faster, taking her breath away. Her body arched off the bed, meeting his every thrust, every demanding push. The blindfold was still on, intensifying the feeling, making her feel utterly consumed by him. She clawed at his back, leaving red marks on his skin, a testament to the intensity of her climax.

Her body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure washing over her, pulling her under. She screamed his name, a guttural sound torn from her very soul as she shattered into a thousand pieces, completely undone. He followed quickly after, his own cry of release echoing in the small room, his body seizing against hers, pouring himself into her until they were both spent, breathless, and utterly sated.

He collapsed onto her, his weight heavy and comforting, his heart thundering against her back. The scent of sex and sweat filled the air, a potent reminder of the raw, animalistic pleasure they had just shared.

He rolled off her slowly, pulling the blindfold from her eyes, and she blinked against the sudden, soft light. His eyes, now less intense, held a familiar, almost mischievous glint. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her, a lazy, contented smile playing on his lips.

"So," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, "found your tennis ball, did we?"

Y/N couldn't help but smile back, a flush still lingering on her cheeks. "Something like that," she whispered, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his damp hair. "Definitely a better catch than a rogue tennis ball."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a final shiver of pleasure through her. "I'd say so," he agreed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. "And just between us, Y/N... I think this private show was far more interesting than anything you'd find online."

She swatted his arm playfully. "Conceited much, Apollo?"