Chapter 13: Control
The steel was a cold, hard truth inside him. I could feel it through his skin, a rigid line of foreign tension buried in the pulsing heat of his cock. His breath came in controlled, measured pulls against the back of my neck, but the rhythm was off. A fractional hitch. A testament.
My hand moved on him, a slow, twisting stroke from root to tip, my palm gliding over the slick combination of his pre-cum and the residual fluids weeping from around the metal. My thumb rubbed rough, deliberate circles over the flared head, avoiding the sensitive slit where the sound disappeared inside. I was mapping the new geography of his pleasure, learning the minefields.
“Is that all?” he murmured, the words vibrating against my spine. His own hand slid from my hip to my own aching, neglected cock. He wrapped his fingers around me, a mirror of my grip on him. His touch was expert, immediately finding the brutalized, oversensitive spot just beneath the head. He squeezed. A bolt of sharp, bright sensation shot through me, making my thighs jerk.
It was a countermove. A flawless, ruthless parry.
I tightened my grip on his sounded cock in response, increasing the pace. I focused on the ridge of his shaft, using the heel of my hand to apply deep, grinding pressure on the upward stroke. I felt him thicken further, the veins standing in stark relief under my fingers. The metal inside him was a conductor; every tug on his flesh transmitted directly to that inviolable core. A low, gut-deep groan escaped him. It was not a sound of pleasure. It was the sound of a foundation cracking.
“You’re shaking,” I whispered, turning my head just enough to see the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in the muscle.
“Observation is not insight,” he bit out, but his voice lacked its usual glacial perfection. It was strained. His hand on my cock became punishing, a fast, relentless pump designed to overwhelm, not to tease. He was trying to force a climax from me, to break my focus, to reestablish the old dynamic where my body was a simple instrument he played.
But the eggs had changed the wiring. The repeated, denied peaks had sensitized everything. His ruthless strokes felt less like torture and more like a direct line to a frayed and sparking nerve cluster. Pleasure, raw and electrical, began to coil in my base, far too quickly. “Fuck,” I hissed, my own rhythm on him faltering.
“There,” he said, a note of cold triumph returning. He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, a corkscrew motion that made my vision blur. “You’re just a leaky, desperate thing. You can’t hold a thought, let alone a strategy.”
The orgasm built like a tsunami, swift and devastating. I tried to fight it, to channel the sensation back into my hand on his cock, but it was useless. My body betrayed me, seizing up. “No, wait—“
It crashed over me. My back arched violently against his chest as a thick, ragged cry was torn from my throat. Ropes of come streaked across the desk, my cock pulsing uncontrollably in his merciless fist. The pleasure was intense, obliterating, a white-hot detonation in my nerves. For three seconds, I was nothing but a vessel for release.
Then it was over. And his hand didn’t stop.
He kept milking me, his fingers slick with my spend, working my oversensitive, softening flesh. The sensation instantly pivoted from bliss to agony. A sharp, grating overstimulation that was closer to pain. I whimpered, trying to squirm away, but his arm across my chest was an iron bar. “Stop, ah, god, stop, it’s too much—“
“You don’t decide when it’s too much,” he said, his voice dropping to a predatory hush. His other hand, the one not currently torturing my cock, came up and covered my mouth, silencing my protests. He held me through the violent, shuddering aftershocks, his grip on me never easing. My cock, spent and raw, twitched pathetically with every pass of his palm.
Just as the painful sensitivity began to ebb, my body, confused and demon-quick to recover, betrayed me again. A second, weaker orgasm was ripped from me, a dry, convulsing shiver that felt more like a seizure. I screamed against his palm, tears springing to my eyes. My legs thrashed. It was too much. My system was overloading.
Through the haze of torment, I felt it. Against the small of my back, his sounded cock was diamond-hard, throbbing. He was still on the edge I’d built for him, even as he destroyed me. The symmetry was maddening.
He released my spent cock, finally. I sagged against him, boneless, trembling from head to toe. My ass was a wet, open ache against his trousers. Every nerve felt flayed.
“Pathetic,” he breathed, but the word lacked heat. It was an automatic response. His focus was elsewhere. His hand left my mouth and returned to my hip, his grip almost… possessive. His other hand, glistening with my release, hovered near my face. “Clean it.”
Dazed, overstimulated, I turned my head and took his fingers into my mouth. I sucked them clean, the taste of my own bitter spend mixing with his scent. The subservience was automatic, but my eyes stayed locked on his reflection in the dark window. His gaze was fixed on where his fingers disappeared between my lips, his own breathing shallow.
I released his fingers with a soft pop. A new, dangerous idea flickered in my wrecked mind. He was still hard. He was still right there.
With a surge of effort that came from somewhere beyond exhaustion, I shoved myself off his lap. I stumbled, my legs nearly giving way, and dropped to my knees on the floor before him. My body trembled uncontrollably, a fine, ceaseless vibration of systemic shock. But I reached for him.
I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock, my fingers meeting the cold steel flange. I leaned forward and took the swollen, weeping head into my mouth. The taste of him, of ozone and salt and power, flooded my senses. The sound inside him was a palpable presence against my tongue, a hidden hardness within the soft, velvety heat.
I sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure, hollowing my cheeks. I used my tongue to massage the frenulum, to probe around the intrusion. My other hand cradled his balls, heavy and tight. I was a ruin servicing a monument.
He let out a sharp hiss. His hands fisted in my hair, not guiding, just holding on. “You… insatiable…”
I redoubled my efforts, bobbing my head, taking him deeper until the tip of his cock nudged the back of my throat. I swallowed around him, the muscles fluttering. The vibrations traveled down the steel. His thighs tensed. A full-body shudder wracked him. He was close. So close.
I pulled off, letting his cock slip from my lips with a wet sound. I stared up at him, panting, my own overstimulated tremors making my teeth chatter slightly. “Not… not yet,” I managed to rasp.
A snarl ripped from his throat. The control shattered. In one violent motion, he hauled me up by my arms and slammed me face-down across the broad, polished desk. The impact drove the air from my lungs. Papers scattered. A heavy crystal paperweight hit the floor with a thud.
His weight came down on me, pinning me. One hand twisted in my hair, yanking my head back. The other spread me open, fingers digging into the sore cheeks of my ass. “You dare,” he growled, his voice ragged with a fury that was ninety percent thwarted need. “You play your little games with me?”
I felt the broad, slick head of his cock, impossibly hard, nudge against my hole. It was still sounded. I could feel the unnatural rigidity of it. The violation would be profound.
“Yes,” I gasped into the wood grain.
He drove into me in one brutal, shearing thrust.
The sound inside him created a unique, devastating friction. It wasn’t just his flesh stretching me open—it was the unbending metal core, amplifying every ridge and vein, making him feel twice as thick, twice as invasive. The stretch was breathtaking, a burn that eclipsed the memory of the eggs. I screamed, my back bowing, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick desk.
He didn’t pause. He set a punishing, relentless pace, fucking into my ravaged body with single-minded fury. Each thrust was a piston-stroke, bottoming out with a force that shook the desk. The metal inside him grated against my deepest, most sensitive tissues. It was pain and pleasure fused into one incomprehensible sensation, a feedback loop of agony and electric shock.
My overstimulated nerves, still screaming from the forced orgasms, caught fire again. Another climax, unbidden and vicious, tore through me. I came dry, my body convulsing around his invading length, a silent scream locked in my throat. He didn’t slow. He used my clamping, fluttering muscles, riding the waves of my helpless paroxysm.
“Again,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his own control incinerated by the edging, by the sound, by my defiance. His hand left my hair and snaked under me, finding my battered cock. Two rough strokes were all it took. Another orgasm, thinner, sharper, like glass breaking in my spine, shattered me. I sobbed, drooling onto the desk. I was nothing but a series of involuntary, violent tremors, a puppet jangling on its strings.
He was trembling too. Not from release, but from the sustained, excruciating denial. Every deep plunge was a negotiation with his own precipice. I could feel the tension coiled in him, a spring wound past its limit. His rhythm began to fracture, becoming erratic, desperate.
With a final, roared oath that held no words, only raw, sovereign need, he plunged to the hilt and held there. His body locked, every muscle rigid. I felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release inside me, not around the sound, but through it—a bizarre, internal flooding. The sounded cock remained relentlessly, impossibly hard within him, even as he emptied himself in great, shuddering waves.
He collapsed over me, his weight crushing, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. His breaths were ragged, torn things. The tremors in his powerful frame matched my own. We were a matched set of ruins, vibrating on different frequencies—him from the endless, edged tension, me from the brutal, repeated overstimulation.
Slowly, he softened inside me. But the hardness of the sound remained, a permanent, stubborn ache lodged in us both. He withdrew, the movement causing us both to flinch. A slick, hot trickle, mixed with his spend and my sweat, dripped down my thigh.
He pushed himself upright, swaying slightly on his feet. He looked down at me, sprawled across his desk, trembling uncontrollably. His icy eyes were dark, unreadable oceans. His sounded cock, still semi-hard and glistening with our mixed fluids, was a stark testament to the drawn-out torment.
He didn’t speak. He simply turned and walked, slightly unsteady, towards the hallway, leaving me there shaking, overflowing, and utterly conquered in a new and terrible way. The game had changed. The board was broken. And we were both still playing.