Chapter 13: Mirrored Obedience
The taste of him was a dark, intimate secret on her tongue. The stretch of her lips around his girth, the way her jaw already ached—it was a violation so complete it felt like truth. His grip in her hair was an anchor, a tether to his will. She remained perfectly still, her eyes watering, waiting for his command.
Eris watched her, his expression unreadable. The faint dawn light from a high, narrow window cut across the side of his face, leaving one eye in shadow. He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, a gesture that could have been mistaken for tenderness if not for the context.
“Get up,” he said, his voice low.
Her knees protested as she pushed herself from the floor, the rug’s pattern impressed into her skin. He stood in one fluid motion, refastening his trousers but leaving the laces loose. He took her by the wrist, his fingers a cool band around her pulse, and led her not back to the bed, but across the chamber to a recessed alcove.
It held a vanity. The mirror was vast, floor-length, framed in gilded autumn leaves that seemed to writhe in the uncertain light. The surface was cluttered with the quiet detritus of a life lived behind walls: a silver comb tangled with long, dark hairs that were not hers, dried flowers crumbling to dust, bottles of scent with opaque labels. He positioned her directly before the glass.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice a murmur by her ear. His free hand came up, not to cover her eyes, but to curl around the side of her neck, his thumb tipping her chin up. “See who you are here.”
Her reflection was a pale, wide-eyed ghost flanked by his solid, clothed form. She saw the marks blooming on her throat and breasts, the wild disarray of her hair, the naked vulnerability in her own stance. She looked used. Ravaged. A secret kept in a gilded cage.
His other hand fisted in her hair again, wrenching her head back against his shoulder. A whimper escaped her before she could choke it down.
“You’ll watch,” he said, his lips moving against her temple. “You’ll see every second of it.”
He guided his cock free once more, the length of him sliding against the cleft of her ass through the mirror’s illusion. He didn’t ask. He used his grip on her hair to angle her head forward and pushed himself past her lips, filling her mouth in one relentless drive.
A choked gag ripped from her throat, her body convulsing. Spotted black danced at the edges of her vision. She clutched at his wrist on her neck, her nails digging in.
“Eyes open,” he snarled.
She forced them to focus on the mirror. The sight was obscene. Her cheeks hollowed, her jaw stretched obscenely wide around his shaft. Saliva glistened at the corners of her mouth. Tears tracked clean lines through the flush on her skin. And behind her, his face was a mask of ferocious concentration, his eyes locked on their joined reflection.
He began to move. He used his fist in her hair to piston her mouth onto his cock, setting a ruthless, shallow rhythm designed for his pleasure, not her endurance. The sounds were wet, ragged, animal. Each thrust hit the back of her throat, triggering a violent gag reflex that she fought to suppress, her body trembling with the effort.
He moaned, a low, shuddering sound of pure gratification, his head rolling back on his shoulders. The abandon in the gesture, the raw pleasure he took from her submission, was more devastating than his control. He pushed and pulled her, using her mouth like a toy, listening to the muffled cries and gags she couldn’t contain.
He paused, buried to the hilt, holding her there as she struggled to breathe through her nose, her body heaving. He watched her in the mirror, his own breath coming in sharp gusts.
“That’s a good bitch,” he rasped, his voice thick with arousal. “You like being used, don’t you? You like this filthy display.”
He pulled her off him with a slick, pop. She dragged in a ragged, sobbing breath, strings of saliva bridging her lips to his glistening cock. He turned her face towards him, his eyes blazing.
“Please me with your mouth and your hands,” he said, each word a deliberate, hot brand. “Swallow what I give you. Do that, and I’ll eat your pretty pussy.”
The bargain was crudely explicit. A reward for total degradation. A thread of hope in the dark. She moaned, a broken sound, and nodded frantically.
She didn’t wait for him to force her. She leaned forward, taking him back into her mouth on a shaky exhale. This time, she tried. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, then softened her mouth to slide her lips along his length. She used her tongue, tracing the prominent vein underneath. Once, twice, she let her teeth graze him with the lightest, most dangerous pressure.
A sharp hiss escaped him. He reached down, his hand finding her breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching her hardened nipple and giving it a vicious, rolling flick.
“That’s my dirty girl,” he grunted, the praise fouler than any insult.
Her own arousal was a throbbing, aching knot between her legs, a humiliating counterpoint to the violation of her mouth. She could feel her own wetness slicking her thighs. She worked him with a desperate, focused energy, one hand wrapping around the base of him to stroke in time with her mouth, the other braced on his thigh for balance.
He let her set the pace for a minute, two, his hands now gripping the edges of the vanity behind her, his knuckles white. His composure was unraveling. His breaths became ragged pants, his hips beginning to stutter in tiny, involuntary thrusts against her seeking mouth.
“Now,” he choked out. “You swallow it all. Every fucking drop.”
His release was sudden and fierce. He shoved himself deep, his body locking, a guttural roar tearing from his chest. The first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of her throat. She gagged, but fought it down, swallowing convulsively as he emptied himself into her, each spurt a claim in the most visceral way possible.
When he finally softened, slipping from her bruised lips, she was trembling violently, her knees threatening to give way. She kept her eyes downcast, waiting.
He took a moment, his breathing gradually slowing. Then his hands were on her hips, spinning her around to face the mirror again. He bent her forward at the waist, forcing her to plant her hands on the cluttered vanity. Perfume bottles clinked. He kicked her feet apart, spreading her wide before the glass.
“Look,” he ordered, his voice ragged but firm.
In the reflection, she saw him sink to his knees behind her. She saw his fiery gaze, dark with a new kind of hunger, fixed on the exposed, glistening flesh between her thighs. He saw her flinch in anticipation.
“I keep my bargains,” he said, and then his mouth was on her.
There was no gentleness. It was devouring. He licked a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit, then circled the swollen bud with ruthless precision. He fucked her with his tongue, deep and searching, before sucking her clit into the heat of his mouth.
A shattered cry left her lips. Her hands slipped on the polished wood. This was different. This was an assault of pure, undiluted sensation, a targeted demolition of her last shreds of composure. He was relentless, skilled, his tongue and lips and teeth working in a cruel, perfect symphony that built the coil of pleasure anew, tighter and more urgent than before.
He hooked his arms under her thighs, pulling her back against his mouth, holding her open for him. She was sobbing openly now, pleas and curses tumbling from her lips, her reflection a blur of ecstatic agony. The room smelled of sex and perfume and him.
He didn’t stop until her second orgasm tore through her, until her legs gave out and she slumped over the vanity, her forehead pressed to the cool glass, her body convulsing around nothing. Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Only then did he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Her scent was on his skin, a tart, intimate perfume that marked his victory more clearly than any bruise. He looked down at her, collapsed over the vanity, her breath fogging the mirror in ragged patches.
He didn’t speak. He simply hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her upright. Her legs buckled, but he held her firm, steering her away from the mirrored alcove and its stark truths. The four-poster bed loomed, a dark island in the center of the room.
“Up,” he ordered, his voice graveled from use.
He pushed her onto the high mattress. The velvet cover was cool and slippery beneath her. “Grab the headboard,” he said, the command leaving no room for hesitation. “Hold on.”
Her fingers fumbled for the carved, wooden spires. She wrapped her hands around them, the solidity a strange comfort. She heard the rustle of his clothes being shed completely, the final soft thud of fabric hitting the floor.
His weight dipped the mattress behind her. His hands, warm and demanding, smoothed over the curves of her ass. He squeezed, the muscle yielding under his grip, then brought his palm down in a sharp, stinging slap. The sound cracked through the quiet room. A gasp tore from her, her fingers tightening on the wood.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress against her shoulder blade. He leaned over her, one hand sliding around to cup her breast, his fingers plucking at her sensitive nipple. “You take my cock so well. That pretty mouth. This tight, greedy little cunt.”
He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock slick from her own wetness and his earlier release. He pushed in, not with a slow burn, but with a single, relentless thrust that seated him fully inside her. The feeling of being stretched so completely, so immediately, stole the air from her lungs.
He moaned, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure that seemed to vibrate through her own bones. “Fuck. You’re so fucking tight. Every time.”
He began to move, and any semblance of controlled rhythm from the dining hall or the vanity was gone. This was pure, driving need. He fucked her with deep, punishing strokes, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, rhythmic force. The bed, a massive piece of crafted antiquity, began to hammer against the stone wall in a frantic, protesting drumbeat.
She couldn’t contain the sounds. Each thrust punched a cry from her throat. “Eris!” His name was a scream, a plea, a fragment of a shattered sentence.
He suddenly stilled, buried deep, his body sheened in sweat. His hand left her breast and snaked around her jaw, forcing her head to turn towards him. His breath was hot and ragged on her cheek. “Do you want more, my little cock slut?”
Tears blurred her vision. She nodded, frantic, her body clenching around him involuntarily. “Yes. Sir. Please. I need your cock.”
A guttural growl rumbled from his chest. He sucked a bruising kiss onto the junction of her neck and shoulder, his lips and teeth sealing his promise into her skin. Then his mouth found hers in a violent, consuming kiss that tasted of salt and her own arousal.
“Grab the headboard,” he growled against her lips, the words a hot, desperate command in her ear.
She fumbled, her hands finding the posts again as he drew back. He drove into her again, and this time there was no restraint, only a violent, piston-like rhythm that blurred the world into sensation. The headboard slammed into the wall with every snap of his hips, a thunderous, cracking counterpoint to their ragged breaths.
“It’s so fucking good,” she sobbed, the words torn from her. “You’re—you’re going to split me in two.”
A sharp, splintering crack rent the air. The ornate footboard shuddered. Then, with a groan of shearing wood, the entire left side of the bed frame collapsed. The mattress pitched violently to the side.
He didn’t miss a stroke.
In a fluid motion of pure strength, he flipped her onto her back amidst the slanting wreckage. He came down over her, never slipping free, and resumed his brutal pace. The broken frame groaned beneath them.
“I’m not fucking done with you,” he panted, his eyes wild, his control incinerated in the furnace of his own need.
His hand flew to her throat. His fingers didn’t squeeze to cut off air, but pressed firmly, a dominant, claiming cage around her windpipe. The pressure was undeniable, a primal assertion of power that made her eyes widen.
“That’s it, my little slut,” he rasped, each word a thrust, his gaze locked on hers. “Take my fucking cock in your tight little cunt. Fucking mine. You’re mine. You understand that? This cunt is mine.”
This cunt is mine.”
The words weren’t a question. They were a verdict, delivered against the drumbeat of the ruined bed frame and the slick, obscene sound of his body driving into hers. The hand on her throat was an anchor, pinning her to the reality of his possession. Her vision swam at the edges, not from lack of air, but from the sheer, overwhelming totality of him.
She could only manage a ragged, sobbing gasp. Her hips jerked up to meet his next thrust, a helpless, involuntary surrender. “Yours,” she choked out, the word shredded.
A low, approving growl vibrated through his chest and into her own. His pace shifted, becoming less frantic, more deliberate and deep. Each stroke was a slow, grinding possession that rubbed directly against a spot inside her that made her see white. Her toes curled against the tangled velvet coverlet.
“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice a dark scrape against her ear. He released her throat, his hand sliding down to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple with a rough, calloused precision that made her back arch.
“It’s yours,” she panted, the confession tumbling out between gasps. “My cunt is yours, Eris, please—”
“What?” he bit out, nipping her earlobe. “What do you beg for, little human? Use your words.”
The coil inside her was a physical thing, a wire drawn taut to breaking. Every deep, circling thrust of his hips was a twist of the key. The shame was gone, incinerated in the heat. All that remained was a desperate, clawing need.
“More,” she begged, the word a broken sob. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him deeper, to fuse them together. “Fuck me harder. Don’t stop. I need more, I need you to fuck me harder, please—”
A savage, triumphant sound escaped him. He braced his hands on either side of her head, his arms caging her in. The look in his eyes was feral, unguarded, the carefully constructed walls of the Autumn Court heir completely demolished. He drove into her with renewed, devastating force, the broken bed groaning in protest beneath them.
“You want more?” he grunted, each word punctuated by a slam of his hips. “You get what I give you. You come when I say. You take every inch of my cock and you thank me for it.”
She was babbling, a stream of filth and pleas that would have horrified her hours ago. “Yes, yes, fuck, it’s so good, give it to me, I’m your slut, your filthy little cunt, just please, please let me come—”
He suddenly stilled, buried to the hilt, the sudden lack of motion an agony. He was trembling with the effort of holding back. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her collarbone. He looked down at her, his expression raw.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice strained.
She forced her bleary eyes to focus on his. The intensity there, the naked hunger, stole what was left of her breath.
“Now,” he said, and the word was both permission and command.
He pulled almost all the way out, a exquisite torture, then slammed home one final, perfect time. It was the detonation point. Her climax ripped through her with a violence that erased sound and sight, a silent, seizing convulsion that locked her muscles and tore a soundless scream from her throat. Her inner walls clenched around him in frantic, fluttering pulses.
With a ragged roar that seemed to shake the very stones of the chamber, he followed. His own release was a hot, endless flood inside her, a claiming more profound than any word. He collapsed, his weight a solid, welcome press, his face buried in the sweat-damp hollow of her neck.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their shuddering breaths echoing in the ruin of the room. The scent of sex and splintered wood hung heavy in the air. The slant of the mattress pressed them together in the wreckage.
Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. The loss was a physical ache. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, tucking her back against his chest. His arm draped heavily over her waist, his hand splayed possessively across her lower belly. The silence stretched, fraught and new.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice a hoarse, ruined thing. “The guards definitely heard that.”
His words hung in the air, blunt and undeniable. The thunderous collapse of the bedframe, the choked cries, the brutal rhythm—none of it had been quiet. Lilly stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling where the headboard had struck. A strange, breathless laugh bubbled in her chest, but it emerged as a weak huff.
She turned her head on the slanting mattress, her cheek pressed against the sweat-damp velvet. Eris was watching her, his face unreadable in the grey predawn light seeping through the curtains. The feral hunger from minutes before was gone, banked behind a familiar, composed mask. Only the rapid pulse at his temple betrayed him.
“Let them listen,” she murmured, her voice raspy from being used. The defiance was a ghost of its former self, scraped raw and sincere. “I don’t care.”
His eyes narrowed, a silent calculation. Then, something in his expression shifted, softened by a fraction. He shifted, disentangling their limbs with a wince. Splinters from the shattered footboard littered the sheets like grim confetti. “You will,” he said simply, his own voice rough. “When they see you walk out of here. And they will see.”
The statement was not a threat, but a fact. A logistical problem for his strategic mind. He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The motion pulled the muscles of his back, and she saw the faint, red lines where her nails had dug in. Evidence. Her own body felt similarly mapped—aching, sticky, profoundly claimed.
She pushed herself up on trembling arms. The room was a disaster. A vase had shaken from a side table, scattering dried petals and water across the rug. The vanity mirror reflected a scene of catastrophic passion. She looked at him, at the lord of Autumn in the ruins of his own bed, and a reckless impulse seized her.
Before he could stand, she moved. She swung a leg over his lap, straddling him where he sat amidst the wreckage of linen and splintered wood. His breath hitched, a sharp intake. His hands came up automatically to grip her hips, his fingers pressing into the fresh bruises he’d placed there.
“Lilly—” His warning was low.
She ignored it. Reaching between them, she took his softness in her hand. He was still slick from her, from him. She guided him, not waiting for permission, not hesitating. She sank down onto him, a slow, deliberate reclaiming. He was thick, even half-hard, and the stretch was a familiar, burning fullness. A low groan vibrated through his chest, his hands tightening on her.
“I don’t care,” she repeated, the words a hot whisper against his lips. She began to move, a slow, rocking rise and fall of her hips.
He slipped back into her, fully, as she settled her weight. The sensation was different now—deeper, more consuming. She controlled the angle, the pace. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her hair a dark curtain around their faces. Then she began to bounce, not with frantic need, but with a determined, rising rhythm.
“Fuck,” she moaned, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat with its new, purple blooms. “It’s so good. You feel so good inside me.”
Eris watched her, his composure shattered again. His hands slid from her hips to grip the backs of her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as if to imprint his hold onto her bones. His head tipped back against the slumped headboard, his eyes closing for a second before forcing them open again, determined to watch.
“You’re insatiable,” he breathed, his hips moving in tiny, involuntary thrusts to meet her downward strokes. “A greedy, perfect little thing.”
She rode him with a focused intensity, chasing the sensation that was coiling again, deep in her belly. The air was filled with the sound of their slick joining, of her soft, rhythmic grunts, of the broken bed’s creaking complaint. The world narrowed to the points of contact: his hands on her, him inside her, the sweat-slick press of her breasts against his chest.
“Tell me,” she panted, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. “Tell me who I belong to.”
His eyes snapped open, blazing. He captured her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, his tongue sweeping in to claim her all over again. When he broke it, his words were a growl against her swollen lips. “You’re mine. This cunt is mine. Every sound, every shudder, every fucking thought in your head right now is mine.”
It was the permission she needed. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her with a silent, breathtaking violence, her inner muscles clamping around him in relentless, pulsing waves. She collapsed against him, her forehead dropping to his shoulder, her body shuddering uncontrollably.
The feeling of her convulsing around him dragged his own release from him. He thrust up into her, a final, deep surge, and spilled inside her with a hoarse, stifled cry, his body arching beneath hers. He held her there, locked together, as the tremors subsided.
Dawn finally broke, casting a cold, clear light across the destruction. It painted the dust motes drifting over the shattered wood, the torn sheets, the two of them clinging to each other in the quiet aftermath. His hands, still on her thighs, gentled, moving in slow, absent circles.
The silence was different now. Not empty, but thick with unspoken things.
A crisp, deliberate knock sounded at the chamber door.
Eris didn’t startle. His hands stilled. Lilly went rigid against him. She made to move, to scramble off him, to find cover, but his arms tightened around her, holding her in place.
“My Lord?” A male voice, carefully neutral, filtered through the heavy oak. “We heard… a disturbance.”
Eris’s gaze met Lilly’s. His eyes held a dark, knowing amusement. He called out, his voice steady and clear, utterly devoid of the ragged passion of moments before. “A structural issue with the bedframe. See that it’s replaced. Today.”
A pause. “At once, my Lord.” Retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Lilly buried her face in the crook of his neck, her body shaking—not with passion now, but with silent, helpless laughter. The absurdity of it, the sheer, ridiculous brazenness, crashed over her.
She felt the rumble of his own laughter in his chest, a sound she had never heard before—deep, genuine, and startled. His arms wrapped around her fully, pulling her tight against him as the first true rays of morning sun pierced the room, illuminating the wreckage and the two figures at its center, bound together in the quiet, complicated aftermath.