Chapter 12: Powe play
The taste of him was still in my mouth, a salty, intimate stain, when the next contraction hit. It was a wave that crested over the fragile calm his release had left in me, smashing it to pieces. My body bowed on the floor, a low, animal groan vibrating in my chest. The plug was a solid, unmovable planet, and my insides were a collapsing star trying to force it out of orbit.
Marius watched, buttoning his cuff with meticulous care. The casualness of the gesture was its own kind of violence. My suffering was a clock he watched, not a fire he felt.
“Please,” I rasped, the word scraped raw from my throat. It wasn’t enough. I knew it wasn’t enough. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my trembling arms threatening to buckle. “Please, Marius. The plug. Take it out. I need… I need to push. I can’t hold them.”
He finished with his cuff and looked down at me, his head tilted. “You need? What you need is irrelevant. What you want, however, might be worth articulating.”
Another cramp, shorter but sharper, made me cry out. My cock, still pierced and aching, gave a futile jerk. The red mist, thinner now but still present, wisped from my skin. “I want it out,” I begged, tears of pure physiological distress streaming down my face. “I want you to take it out. Please, sir. Please, let me finish this.”
He walked a slow circle around me, his shoes clicking on the concrete. “You want me to relieve this pressure I’ve so carefully constructed. You want me to grant you the relief of emptying that stuffed, aching hole. Is that it?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes, that’s it!”
He stopped behind me. I felt his shadow over me. “Then beg for it. Properly. Not like a wounded animal. Like a demon who knows what he’s asking for.”
I dropped my forehead to the cool floor. The words came in a rushed, desperate slurry. “Please take the plug out of my ass. Please let me push these eggs out of me. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. I can’t think, I can’t breathe around it. Please.”
His foot nudged my hip. “Roll over. On your back. Let me see you.”
I obeyed, the movement agonizingly slow. I lay spread before him, knees falling open, my swollen stomach a pale dome, the black plug a obscene, protruding seal between my cheeks. I was completely exposed, a landscape of torment.
He knelt between my legs, his eyes analytical. He placed a hand flat on my lower belly, just above the pubic bone, and pressed down. The internal compression was immediate and devastating. The eggs shifted, grinding, pressure skyrocketing against the plug’s inner face. A scream tore from me, high and ragged.
“You feel that?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. “That’s the consequence of your desire. That’s the cost. Remember it.”
His other hand went to the plug’s flared base. He didn’t pull it out. He wiggled it, just a fraction, side to side. The stretch was electric, a fresh burn that lit up every nerve ending in my ass. It also sent a bizarre, powerful jolt straight to my cock. The sound conducted the sensation, a direct line. I gasped, my back arching.
He saw it. His icy eyes flicked to my twitching, leaking cock. “Interesting.” He twisted the plug slowly. The movement was excruciating, a deep, internal abrasion. But with it came another bolt of that dark, unwanted pleasure, a peak that crested with the pain of the contraction currently seizing my guts. They were syncing. The cramping and the stimulation were becoming one intertwined cord of sensation.
He began to pull. Slowly. Infinitely slowly. The widest part of the plug stretched my sore, stretched ring to its limit. I was panting, my hands clawing at the floor. It was like being un-corked. There was a wet, sucking pop as the widest point cleared me.
The moment it was out, my body took over. It was a biological imperative, beyond my control. A massive, rolling contraction seized me, and with a guttural roar, I bore down. The leading egg, now unimpeded, surged forward. The stretch was familiar but no less shocking—a burning, tearing fullness that consumed all thought. My vision went gray at the edges.
I pushed, shaking, every muscle in my body straining. Marius watched, his hand still on my stomach, feeling the internal movement. With a final, wet heave, the second egg passed. It slid out of me with a heavy, solid sound, joining the first on the floor. The relief was a physical echo, a hollowing.
But the reprieve was seconds long. The next egg was already descending, the next contraction building like a tide. This time, as the cramp peaked, a concurrent wave of intense, sharp pleasure shot from my ass up through my gut and directly into my sounded cock. It wasn’t orgasm. It was a peak of pure, undiluted sensation, a neural flashover. I screamed again, but this time it was mixed with a sob of bewildered ecstasy.
Marius’s hand left my stomach and closed around my cock. He squeezed in time with my next contraction. “There it is,” he said, his voice edged with dark fascination. “Your wiring is cross-firing. Your body doesn’t know whether it’s expelling or coming. It’s trying to do both.”
He was right. As I labored, pushing out egg after agonizing egg, each passage was accompanied by a crashing wave of pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from pain. The sound trapped the sensation, magnified it, turned my cock into a live wire. Each time I felt the burn of the stretch, the deep muscular effort of the push, a corresponding jolt of raw, electric need would arc through my groin. I was crying, shaking, babbling nonsense. My world narrowed to a cycle: the building pressure, the tearing fullness, the explosive release of the egg, and the mind-blanking peak that followed.
By the fifth egg, my strength was failing. My pushes were weak, uncoordinated whimpers. The egg crowned but stalled. I strained, sweat pouring off me, but it wasn’t enough. I was empty of everything—energy, will, coherence.
Marius sighed, as if faced with a mildly tedious task. He moved his hand from my cock to my stomach. He positioned both hands over the bulge of the remaining eggs. “You’re useless now,” he stated flatly. Then he leaned his weight into me, pushing down with brutal, clinical force.
It was an external contraction, far more powerful than anything my own muscles could muster. A cry was forced from my lungs. The egg moved, compelled by his relentless pressure. It stretched me, burned me, and then slid free. The pleasure-peak that followed was faint, a distant echo. I was too broken to ride it.
He did it again for the sixth. And the seventh. Each time, his hands pressing, crushing, forcing my body to expel. I was just meat. A vessel. I laid there and took it, my cries softening to whimpers, my trembling becoming a constant, fine vibration.
The eighth and final egg was the largest. He had to press harder, leaning his full weight onto me. The pain was a clean, white spear. There was no pleasure this time, only a profound, final sensation of being scooped utterly empty. It slithered out of me, and the subsequent feeling was not relief, but a vast, aching absence. A cavern.
I lay utterly still, breathing in ragged, shallow hitches. My stomach was flat again, but it felt foreign, a deflated sack. My ass was a ruined, throbbing open ache. My cock, still sound-pierced, lay against my thigh, a sore, swollen thing twitching with the aftershocks of phantom peaks.
Marius stood. He surveyed the scene: me, destroyed on the floor, surrounded by eight glistening, obsidian eggs. He stepped over them, coming to crouch by my head. He touched my cheek, a strangely gentle gesture. “Look at you. All empty. All done.”
I turned my face into his hand, a pathetic, instinctual search for comfort. He allowed it for a moment before his fingers slid down to my lips. I opened my mouth without thought, taking his fingers in, sucking weakly.
He chuckled. “Still? Even now?” He pulled his fingers free, wet, and traced them down my neck, over my collarbone, to my nipple. He pinched it, hard. A faint spark, the barest reminder of sensation, flickered in my deadened nerves.
I moved my hand, my arm heavy as lead. I fumbled for the fly of his trousers, my fingers clumsy. I got the button open. I didn’t have the strength to do more. I just looked up at him, my eyes blurred with exhaustion and leftover need. My other hand drifted to my own sore cock, giving it a feeble, unconvincing stroke. The sound shifted inside me, a dull reminder.
“You want me to fuck you,” he said, not a question. “Now. Like this.”
I nodded, a tiny movement. My voice was a shredded whisper. “Yeah. Please. Need… need you to.”
He smiled, a wide, genuine smile of amusement. It was the most frightening expression I’d seen on him yet. “You’re a greedy little hole, aren’t you? Drained dry, stretched wide open, and you’re still teasing for a fucking.” He stood up, looking down at me. “You can’t even sit up. How do you propose we manage it?”
I had no answer. I just blinked up at him, my hand still resting on my cock, a silent, desperate plea.
He shook his head slowly, that smile still playing on his lips. He refastened his trousers. “The thought is appreciated. The spectacle is… memorable.” He turned and walked towards the kitchen. “But you’re done. For now. Clean yourself up. The en-suite is through there. Don’t bleed on the floors.”He left me there, lying in the aftermath, surrounded by the evidence of my ordeal. The trembling in my limbs wouldn’t stop. Every shallow breath made my sore insides ache. I turned my head, my cheek against the cold concrete, and looked at the nearest egg. Its surface reflected the distorted city light.
I had gotten what I begged for. Emptiness. And now, in the hollow stillness, a new kind of craving was already beginning to curl, cold and insidious, in the pit of that emptiness.
And now, in the hollow stillness, a new kind of craving was already beginning to curl, cold and insidious, in the pit of that emptiness. It wasn’t just for release. It was for retaliation, for shifting the silent weight of that towering power even a fraction. I pushed myself up, a slow and agonizing process. My muscles felt gelatinous, unspecific. I left the eggs where they lay, strange obsidian ornaments on the gray concrete, and shuffled toward the hallway he’d indicated.
The en-suite bathroom was a cavern of marble and chrome. I leaned heavily on the sink, staring at my reflection. My eyeliner was a drowned raccoon smear. My skin was pale, my eyes hollow. I looked used up. I turned the shower on, steaming hot, and climbed in.
The water was a scalding baptism. It hit my shoulders first, then streamed down my chest, my belly, my cock. The sensation was a shock. The heat magnified every point of contact, especially on the oversensitive, bruised flesh of my shaft and the cold steel sound still rooted in my slit. I hissed, bracing my forearms against the wet tile. My cock, despite the exhaustion, gave a thick, interested twitch. The need wasn’t gone. It had been refined by the ordeal, distilled into a sharper, more desperate point.
I soaped my hands, the lather slick and warm. I touched my stomach, now soft and flat, tracing where the hard bulk of the eggs had been. My other hand drifted lower. I cupped my balls, heavy and aching, then wrapped my fingers around the base of my cock. Just holding it sent jittering signals up my spine. The sound was a constant, maddening presence. I pumped my fist slowly, once, twice. Pre-cum, clear and slick, mixed with the shower water and soap. It was too much and not enough. I released my grip, shuddering. Denial was the furnace I was trapped in now. I washed the dried sweat and other fluids from my skin, the routine motions a stark contrast to the raw tumult of before. I was clean, empty, and thrumming with unresolved tension.
I stepped out, dripping, and found a black robe hanging on the door. I wrapped myself in it, the silk cool against my feverish skin. The penthouse was silent. I padded barefoot across the cool floors, following the low hum of a voice. He was in the study, seated behind the vast desk, speaking in a low, commanding tone into a sleek phone. “...ensure the shipment is rerouted through the docks. I don’t care what the Macedonians prefer.” His eyes lifted and locked onto me in the doorway. He didn’t pause his conversation. His gaze was analytical, assessing my cleaned state, my quiet defiance.
I let the robe fall open. I didn’t move. I just stood there, letting him look at the landscape he’d carved: the likely bruises beginning to bloom on my hips, the pink, well-used pucker of my ass visible from the side, the way the robe’s belt barely clung to my waist. A slow, predatory smile touched my lips. It felt unnatural. It felt necessary.
He finished his call, set the phone down silently. “You should be unconscious,” he stated, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m full of surprises.” My voice was still rough, but it held a new edge. I walked toward the desk, letting the robe sway open further with each step. The sensory memory of the shower’s heat still clung to me, a contrast to the room’s chill. I stopped beside his chair. He didn’t reach for me. He watched, waiting to see the shape of my move.
I knelt. Not in the desperate, broken way I had before. Slowly. Deliberately. I placed my hands on his knees and pushed them apart. He allowed it, his expression unreadable. I leaned in and nuzzled the growing bulge in his tailored trousers. I inhaled his scent through the fabric: wool, sandalwood, power. My tongue darted out, tracing the outline of his cock. It began to harden immediately.
“This is a novel approach,” he said, his voice cool. His hand came to rest on top of my head, not guiding, just present. A claim.
“Shut up,” I whispered against the fabric, the obscenity a fragile weapon. I mouthed him, open-mouthed and wet, soaking the wool. I worked his belt open, then his button, then his zipper. I pulled his cock free. It was thick, flushed, already fully hard. I didn’t take it in my mouth. I leaned my face against it, rubbing my cheek along the length, feeling the vein pulse against my skin. I was teasing him. The realization sent a thrilling, dangerous current through my gut.
He gripped my hair then, tightening his fingers. “Mind your tone.”
I looked up at him, my eyes wide, a parody of innocence. “Or what?” I breathed. Then I licked a slow, broad stripe from his balls to his tip. I swirled my tongue around the head, collecting the bead of salt there, humming. I took just the crown into my mouth, sucking lightly, letting my teeth graze with infinitesimal pressure.
A low rumble sounded in his chest. His grip in my hair tightened further, a warning. I ignored it. I released him with a pop and began using my hand, fisting his shaft in a slow, tight rhythm while I focused on his balls. I took one into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue, sucking gently. His thighs tensed. I could feel the control he was exerting, the rigid stillness. It was a cage I wanted to rattle.
I switched to his other ball, my hand working his cock faster now, my thumb rubbing rough circles over the slick head. My own denied cock was a screaming absence between my legs, the sound a perpetual ache. That need fueled me, made me bold. I released his balls and looked up, maintaining the steady, rhythmic stroke of my hand. “You like watching, don’t you?” I murmured. “Watching me break. You liked seeing those eggs come out of me. You wanna come watching me, too?”
His icy eyes were dark, his jaw tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game, little incubus.”
“I’m not playing,” I said, and then I took him deep into my throat in one smooth, practiced motion. I swallowed around him, the muscles convulsing. He swore, a sharp, gut-punched sound. His hips jerked upward, fucking deeper into my throat. I pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. I went down again, deeper, faster, establishing a brutal pace. I wasn’t just sucking him. I was fucking my face on his cock, using him. My hand joined again, fisting the base in tandem with my mouth’s rhythm.
“Reese,” he warned, his voice strained.
I pulled off, panting. My lips were swollen. “Yeah? You gonna stop me?” I dragged my tongue along the underside of his shaft, all the way to the tip. Then I did it again. And again. It was maddening, feather-light torture. I avoided the direct stimulation he needed, focusing on everywhere but the most sensitive parts. I kissed the inside of his thigh, bit it lightly. I licked his balls again, then traced a wet path back up to his tip, only to blow a cool breath across the wetness.
He was breathing heavily now. The controlled, even rhythm was gone. His hand in my hair was trying to guide me, to force me back to a steady, deep rhythm he could manage. I resisted, moving my head just out of sync, breaking the pattern. I’d take him deep and frantic, then pull back to kitten licks. I’d swallow him whole and hold him there, then release him to stroke him with a twisting, slippery grip.
“Fuck,” he gritted out. His other hand clenched the arm of his chair, the leather creaking. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. The sovereign demon, the cold calculator, was being unraveled by a low-tier succubus with a sore ass and a sounded, denied cock. The power of it was more intoxicating than any breath of emotional energy I’d ever stolen.
I felt his cock swell, the pulse becoming frantic against my tongue. He was close. I wanted him right on the edge. I took him deep one final time, my nose buried in his pubic hair, and applied suction so fierce it hollowed my cheeks. I swallowed repeatedly, milking him with my throat.
He growled, a raw, uncivilized sound. His hips snapped up, fucking uncontrollably into my mouth. “Enough!” It was a command, but it was ragged, desperate.
I pulled off just as he burst. The first hot, salty jet hit my lips, my chin. The next pulses splashed across my face, my cheek, into my hair. I kept my hand moving on him, milking out every last drop, watching his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, his perfect composure shattered into something raw and open. His breath came in ragged gusts. He was still fucking up into my fist, his body chasing the last echoes of sensation.
Slowly, he stilled. His hand fell from my hair. He opened his eyes. They were no longer icy. They were dark, stormy, and utterly focused on me. On the come dripping down my face. On the defiant, shaking tension in my shoulders. The silence that followed was thicker, more charged, than any that had come before. He was no longer in complete control. And we both knew it.
And we both knew it.
The come on my face was cool where it wasn’t tacky. His tasted metallic, like power and ozone. I kept my eyes locked on his, watching the storm in them churn, the shock of his own lost control solidifying into something far more dangerous: calculation. He didn’t move to wipe my face. He didn’t move at all. We were suspended there, kneeling on marble, leaning into leather, the clock of his pleasure still ticking down in the air between us.
His fingers twitched on the armrest, the leather groaning under his grip. Silence stretched.
I broke it first, a gamble."Enjoy the view?" My voice was rough.
He didn't answer with words. One hand darted out, fingers curling under the belt of my robe, and he yanked me forward so my hips were flush with the edge of the heavy chair, so my cock and the piercing within it pressed obscenely against his tailored wool trousers. The sudden pressure, even through the fabric, made me gasp. My hands slammed onto his shoulders for balance. The steel inside me moved, a bright internal spike of sensation.
"Arrogance in a lesser demon is usually a death sentence." His tone was quiet, deceptively smooth, like polished flint. He released my robe. His hands went to my hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above my pelvic bones. He held me there, locked.
"Threats only work," I said, struggling to keep my voice even as his thumbs pressed on bruised muscle, "if I'm scared of dying more than I'm scared of the fucking quiet in my head right now."
He almost smiled.Almost. It was just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, there and then erased. He was studying me anew. "The misery of your own boredom, of your own pathetic need, is louder than my threats. How droll. How shallow." He said it with the clinical air of a biologist pinning a specimen.
"And whose miserable boredom kept a stupid low-tier incubus locked in a penthouse for hours, egging him?" The retort was out of me, brazen and sharp. My hips jerked involuntarily, grinding my trapped, sore cock against his thigh. The sound scraped inside me, a raw spark.
His grip on my hips tightened, fingernails biting. "You was an available canvas. And a convenient storage vessel." Then, with a fluid, powerful movement, he shifted his hands and spun me around. My back slammed against his chest, his arm like a steel bar across my upper body. I was half-sitting, half-standing, pressed into the chair, looking out at the dark, silent study. "But you seem determined to repaint yourself," he murmured into my ear, his breath chillingly warm.
His free hand snaked down my belly, pushing the robe completely open. He didn't stroke me. He traced the ridges of my lower abdomen, where the memory of profound fullness was now a ghost-feeling, a vacuum. "You used your mouth like a weapon." His fingertips slid lower, brushing the lax, stretched pucker beneath my balls, damp from my leaking aftermath. He pushed a single finger inside, not far. It was effortless. I felt like I had no resistance left. I groaned, my head falling back against his shoulder. "You think putting a sticky little pinprick in my control is a victory." He whispered it.
"I think," I panted, pushing back against his finger, the internal ache sparking another useless throb from my cock, "it's a start."
He laughed then, a short, low sound against my neck. He withdrew his finger. Both his hands came to my front, one curling around my throat—not squeezing, just holding—the other circling my sounded cock. His palm was hot and rough. He didn’t move it, just squeezed, a steady, unbearable pressure. My breath hitched. The steel rod inside me felt hotter, an alignment of nerve endings screaming into a void.
"Weak things mistake a flinch for a wound."
My eyes were watering again, but from frustration now. I struggled, arching.It was useless. He was an unmovable wall. "Just fucking do it, Marius. Fuck me or choke me or throw me out. Stop talking." I was done with the analysis, the dissection. I wanted the physical world, the blunt friction. The come drying on my face itched.
His hand on my cock began to move. A slow, agonizing slide over the slick flesh, his fingertips catching on the small, metal flange of the sound protruding from my slit. My knees trembled violently. Pre-cum seeped more readily, mixing with his earlier spit and my shame. Each pass of his hand was a lesson in exquisite negation. He dragged me right to the precipice, forcing the delicate inner head of my cock against the hard metal limit inside, over and over, and then stopping just as my balls drew up tight.
"Greedy," he breathed against my ear. He brought me to that brink five times.Six. I was sobbing openly now, silently, my head lolling against him. My ankles crossed and uncrossed as desperate little kicks. My fists clenched and unclenched on the armrests of his chair. Each denial was a small, personal annihilation. The void in my gut after the eggs seemed to resonate with the other, newer void where an orgasm should be.
I recognized this.This feeling. It was the same as the hour of denials before. He was rebuilding the cathedral of my need brick by brick, using his own immutable will as mortar.
But now I knew one single, shattering thing I hadn't known before. He could flinch.
Without conscious thought, driven by the throbbing hurt and that single spark of knowledge, I snaked my hand back between us. My fingers closed clumsily over the hand that was tormenting my cock. I didn't push it away. I tightened my own hand over his, pressing it harder against me. I mimicked his rhythm exactly. I forced him to move faster, to squeeze tighter, until it was my desperation dictating the stroke.
He stiffened behind me. "Stop."
I kept his hand moving. I felt him throb against my back, felt the muscle tense. I whispered, "You feel that, too, right? Just under your skin. Bet it’s vibrating. Itching. Your own weakness."It was insane. Suicidal. I was no longer certain which of us was the cornered animal. My mind narrowed to one action. My cock screamed at the continuation of friction. Abruptly, I let go of his hand and shoved my own between my legs. I yanked on the cold, barbaric steel jutting from my slit. It was anchored inside, deep. The pain was instant and blindingly sharp—a brilliant, white flare of pure agony that shot through the center of my need. Tears of real pain leapt to my eyes. I gritted my teeth and pulled again, a slick, grinding, internal tug.
The sound slid from my urethra inch by torturous inch. The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever felt—it was surgery without anesthetic, a deep, invasive pulling. Fluids dripped in its wake. My vision swam. Finally, the wicked length of it came free with a wet plop, held in my shaking fingers. A cascade of burning relief immediately followed by a terrifying new emptiness.
Marius’s grip had slackened. He was watching my shaking hand in the periphery, his body coiled but still. He hadn't moved.An invitation? A test of gravity?
I twisted clumsily in his lap, meeting his eyes. His gaze was locked on the besmirched steel bar, slick with my fluids. I saw a flicker there, something deeper and more feral than just cold calculation. A vertical pupil expanded for a heartbeat. A true, demonic glint.
He didn’t stop me when I reached for his flaccid, damp cock with my free hand, maneuvering it. His own semen was drying on my face. "Proof of concept," I breathed, my voice shaking as badly as my hands.
Guiding the smooth, tapered end of the steel, I pressed it against the slit of his cock. He inhaled, sharply. He still didn’t move. There was a primal permission in that stillness, an unblinking dare. All his knowledge, his fearsome, sovereign power was there in that fragile opening.I pushed.
It met resistance. The steel was just inside the very tip. His body tensed.His jaw clenched. I increased the pressure, imagining the way the sound had forced open my own reluctant channel, the splitting sting, the singular presence of cold steel where only nerves and heat should be. I forced it deeper, a slow, inexorable invasion. A guttural sound—half growl, half choked-back cry—rumbled in his chest. His abs tightened like sheet iron beneath my other hand. His cock, which had been soft, began to respond in the worst possible way, stiffening around the invading rod, and he fucked it in as much as I pushed.
Sweat beaded on his temples. It was the most honest I’d ever seen him. His head fell back against the chair, the tendons in his neck cording. He didn't look at me. His eyes were focused on the ceiling, on some distant, internal painscape. The thing that worshipped control was taking a little instrument of it, sized and intended for a low-tier incubus, and opening itself up. The symmetry was breathtaking.
"Fuck," he exhaled, the word ragged.
It was in all the way, flush to the small flange at the base. His cock twitched, hard and weeping around the intrusion. It looked terrifying and delicate at once—a profound violation that shivered with latent power.
"Now you," I whispered, shifting. I didn't cradle him. I fisted him around the hard steel invasion. His skin was hot, burning with unnatural fever. I used the same tempo he'd used on me: slow, building strokes that brought him right to that invisible, trembling limit, then a sudden, ceasing halt.
"Stop," he commanded, but this was ruined—muffled, frantic, more plea than order.
I didn't stop. I dragged my thumbnail over the soft skin beneath his head, where the steel vanished into his flesh, even as my palm worked his trapped, gleaming shaft. His whole body shuddered. A groan was ripped from him."Reese."
"Yes." I took my other hand, slick still with my own pain and pleasure, and used it to trace the thin pink line down his sternum, the faint dusting of hair below his navel, the hard muscle of his inner thigh. He was tethered, wired to me by this piece of steel and my own fingers. He grew painfully hard under my ministrations, each rise more rigid and desperate.
His hands clawed at the chair, leather tearing with a dry, protesting squeal. I touched his balls, rolling them in my palm, just the barest pressure, feeling them drawn up high and tight against the base of his usurped cock. His teeth ground together, mashing a pained groan into smothered silence.
I brought him to that breathless edge again. And again. Four more times. I felt the loss of him reflected and remembered deep inside me. A focused, callous arousal. Riding him into painful climax when he needed