Chapter 14: Submission
The muted glow of morning filtered through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets and Marius’s bare back. He was already awake, standing at the window overlooking the waking city, a silhouette of contained power. He wore tailored trousers, no shirt, the muscles of his back and shoulders moving with a feline grace as he lifted a crystal glass of water. The sound, that stubborn titanium intrusion, was still in him. I could see the subtle, rigid line of it accentuated by the way his trousers hung on his hips. A constant state of semi-arousal, a physiological fact.
I ached everywhere. My ass was a tender, bruised memory. My cock felt like it had been sandpapered. But the hunger, the low-grade need to connect, to feed, was a sharper pain. It gnawed behind my sternum. He’d drained me of come, but not of purpose.
I slipped from the bed, the floor cool under my feet. I didn’t speak. I crossed the room, my movements stiff, and pressed my front against his back. I felt him go still. My arms slid around his waist, my hands flattening on the hard plane of his stomach. I nuzzled the space between his shoulder blades, inhaling his scent—expensive soap and that underlying ozone crackle.
My right hand drifted lower, fingertips tracing the line of his hipbone, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. I found the hot, hard length of him, the foreign metal core a palpable ridge under the skin. I wrapped my fingers around him, just holding him, feeling the thick, greedy pulse of his blood.
He took a slow sip of water. “You are incapable of learning.”
“Probably,” I whispered, and began to stroke him. A slow, dry glide. My thumb pressed and circled the swollen head, finding the tiny slit where the sound emerged. He was already leaking, a pearl of pre-cum welling up around the metal. I smeared it down his shaft, easing the friction.
A tremor, minute but undeniable, went through him. His free hand came down and gripped the windowsill, his knuckles bleaching white. He was trying to focus on the city, on the grid of streets and the ant-like humans beginning their day. I was a distraction. A persistent, nagging itch in his perfect control.
I sped up my hand, twisting on the upstroke, squeezing the base. His breathing shallowed. I dropped to my knees behind him, nuzzling the cleft of his ass through the fine wool of his trousers. I mouthed him, biting gently at the fabric, my hand working him with relentless rhythm. I could feel the tension coiling in him, the precipice he’d been denied for so long looming large.
“Reese,” he warned, his voice strained.
“Just saying good morning,” I murmured, and flicked my tongue against him.
He spun around. The movement was violent, dislodging me. His glass shattered on the floor. Water splashed my legs. His eyes were glacial fury, but dilated with want. He grabbed me by the hair and hauled me to my feet, then shoved me backwards onto the bed.
“You want a response?” he snarled, his composure cracking at the edges. He unfastened his trousers, freeing his cock. It was fully hard, angry-red, the sound glinting. “You’ll drown in it.”
He didn’t bother with preamble. He climbed over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. With the other, he took his cock and shoved it into my mouth, fucking my face with short, brutal thrusts. The metal tickled the back of my throat, making me gag. Tears sprang to my eyes. He used my mouth like a cunt, relentless, his hips pistoning.
Just as my jaw began to scream in protest, he pulled out. He flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up. He spat, once, onto his hand, slicked himself, and drove into my sore, unprepared hole.
I cried out, my body seizing at the renewed invasion. The sound made it brutal, a fucking and a piercing all at once. He set a ruthless pace, each thrust jolting me forward on the mattress. The overstimulation from the night before came screaming back, a live wire touching raw nerves.
It took almost nothing. Three strokes in, a shameful, dry orgasm racked me, my passage clamping down on him involuntarily. He grunted, never slowing. “Again,” he commanded, his voice guttural. His hand snaked under me, found my tender cock, and jerked it roughly.
My body, allergic to his command, obeyed. Another pitiful crest, a shuddering release of nothing but sensation and pain. I whimpered into the sheets.
He fucked me through it, his rhythm turning jagged, animalistic. He was using my body to chase his own denied climax, but the edge was too steep, the sound too distracting. He was wound too tight to fall. He pulled out suddenly, flipping me onto my back. He was breathless, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his cock glaring and untouched by release.
“You think this is a game you can win?” he panted, staring down at me as I trembled, wrecked.
Before I could answer, he took my cock in his hand again. He leaned down, his mouth hovering over mine. “Come for me.”
He tugged, once, twice—a specific, cruel pressure. A third orgasm, like a car crash in my pelvis, detonated. A thin, clear strand of fluid seeped from me. I arched off the bed, a strangled sound caught in my throat. He kept stimulating me, through the agony, until I was sobbing, pushing weakly at his hand.
He released me. I collapsed, boneless, twitching. My vision swam. I couldn’t have stood if the building was on fire.
Marius stood from the bed. He looked at his own cock, still painfully erect, still denied. He took a long, slow breath, and the mask of the sovereign demon slid back into place, though it was strained at the seams. He tucked himself away, fastened his trousers.
“Get up,” he said, his voice flat. “We have a reservation at eight.”
An hour later, I was a ghost in expensive clothes. He’d dressed me in soft black tailored trousers and a sheer silk shirt, my own ripped jeans and smudged eyeliner eradicated. Every movement sent echoes of sensitivity through my groin. My legs felt like wet paper. Walking was a careful, deliberate act.
The restaurant was all dark wood, muted gold light, and the hushed murmur of immense wealth. Marius moved through it like a shark through still water, a nod here, a measured glance there. I clung to his arm, not for show, but because I needed the physical support to stay upright. My grip on his bicep was desperate.
We were seated at a secluded booth. The ambient hum of conversations, the clink of silverware, felt miles away. My system was a haze of static and aftershocks. The scent of truffle and seared meat made my stomach roll.
Beneath the starched white tablecloth, my foot found his leg. I rested it there, high on his thigh. He was reading the wine list, his expression impassive.
I let my foot slide inward, nudging the hard line of his cock, still confined in his trousers. He didn’t look up from the list. I pressed down, a steady, insistent pressure. I could feel the heat of him, the rigid outline of the sound.
A waiter appeared. Marius ordered for us both, his voice calm, precise. As the waiter left, Marius’s hand disappeared below the tablecloth. He found my ankle and squeezed, a warning bite of pressure that promised fractures. I didn’t move my foot.
Throughout the appetizers—some delicate, cold thing that tasted of the sea—I maintained the pressure. Subtle shifts of my instep, a slow rub against his bulge. His responses were microscopic: a slight tightening of his jaw as he chewed, a faint pause before he took a sip of wine. His knuckles were white where he gripped his fork.
I was floating in a haze of my own exhaustion, my body humming with the residual trauma of forced pleasure. Yet, in that fog, my focus was singular: him. The latent tremor in his thigh under my foot. The controlled, too-even rhythm of his breathing.
When the main course arrived, I increased the tease. I traced the shape of him through the fabric, toe sliding along the length, circling the head. He cut his steak with meticulous, silent precision. He brought a piece to his mouth, ate it. Swallowed.
He set his knife and fork down. They made no sound on the plate. He looked at me, finally. His eyes were black pools in the low light.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the room’s murmur, “what it feels like? To have that inside you, and to be... curated? Teased by something that smells of my own soap and wears my clothes, while surrounded by cattle who think this is about food?”
I shook my head slightly, my foot pausing.
“It’s an exquisite form of hell,” he breathed. He picked up his wine glass. His hand trembled. Just once. A minute vibration that rippled the dark liquid. He saw me see it. An artery of pure want, laid bare for a second before the ice recongealed.
He took a long drink, draining the glass. Under the table, his hand closed around my ankle again, but this time he didn’t push it away. He held it there, pinning my foot against his aching, denied cock. A silent command to continue.
I did. Through the rest of the meal, through the polite fiction of dessert, I worshipped him with my foot under the table. Each tiny movement was a drop of water on a stone, a grain of sand in the hourglass of his control. He spoke when required, a low murmur to the staff, but his attention was vast and inward, a titanic struggle fought behind a marble brow.
When we rose to leave, he was immaculate. But his movements were too careful, too precise, like a man navigating a floor strewn with broken glass. I clung to his arm, my own weakness a perfect camouflage for his silent, shuddering need. We were a portrait of decadence leaving a restaurant, a powerful man and his pretty, exhausted companion.
Out on the sidewalk, the city’s night roar hit us—cabbies blaring, laughter spilling from bars, a thousand lives oblivious. He hailed a town car. As he held the door for me, his body brushed mine. He was trembling. A fine, constant vibration, like a bridge under strain.
I slid in. He followed, the door shutting with a solid thunk, sealing us in quiet, plush darkness.
The car pulled into traffic. He didn’t look at me. He stared out the window, his jaw clenched. I let my hand fall to his thigh, fingers walking lightly up to the rigid press of his cock against the fine wool.
I leaned over, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, my voice a thread of sound in the dark.
“You’re shaking,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. His silence was a live wire humming between us in the darkened backseat. The city lights slid across his profile in streaks of garish color, illuminating the stark tension in his jaw. My hand on his thigh crept higher.
“Stop,” he said, the word ground out like glass.
But he didn’t move my hand.
I pressed my palm firmly against the hard ridge of his cock. Even through the fabric, I could feel the unnatural rigidity of the sound inside him. He was a bowstring drawn past its limit. My own body was a wrung-out mess, every nerve still screaming from the repeated, forced climaxes at the restaurant. Yet, a perverse energy thrummed in me—a succubus’s reflexive response to such concentrated, thwarted need.
My foot, resting near his on the floorboard, shifted. I slid it up his calf, over his knee, and pressed the sole against the bulge in his trousers. I applied pressure, a slow, grinding circular motion with my instep.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath that cut through the purr of the engine. His hand shot out and clamped over my knee, fingers digging into the joint. It was a warning grip, meant to immobilize, to hurt.
I pushed my foot harder, working him through the fine wool, aiming for the swollen head. “You’re going to break,” I murmured, my own voice slurred with exhaustion and a giddy, reckless intent.
His control snapped.
It wasn’t a mental yielding. It was a physical recoil, a violent flinch of overstimulated nerves. His hand, still vise-tight on my knee, jerked sideways with a sudden, brutal torque.
The sound was a sickening, wet pop from deep inside my ankle, followed by a sharp, clean crack. White-hot, impossible pain exploded up my leg, a pure, searing signal that something fundamental had just been severed. A scream tore from my throat, shrill and shocking in the confined space.
Then, the pain… shifted.
It melted, transmuting in the alchemy of my demonic nature. The white-hot fracture became a searing flood of sensation that rushed directly into my groin. The violation of the break echoed the violation of the sound, of the repeated fuckings, and my body, confused and wired for pleasure, interpreted it as the ultimate, shocking edge.
My back arched against the leather seat. A broken, ragged cry that was not a scream of pain, but of utter, mindless release ripped from me. My cock, spent and raw, jerked violently against my trousers, spilling in a pathetic, watery trickle. An orgasm—dry, sharp, and born of sheer neurological havoc—shook me apart. I convulsed, my hands scrabbling at the seat, my ruined ankle twisting unnaturally as tremors wracked me.
Marius stared, his own want forgotten, his face a mask of stunned, cold horror. He looked at his hand, then at my splayed, jerking form, my foot already beginning to swell at a sickening angle. “Reese,” he said, the name a foreign sound in his mouth. “I didn’t mean to—”
His apology was a fissure in the world. I latched onto it, onto the crack in his marble composure. The aftershocks of the pain-turned-pleasure were still coursing through me, a dizzying, nauseating high. I sobbed, a wet, choking sound, and threw myself across the seat toward him, ignoring the fiery protest from my leg.
I clung to him, my face buried against his neck, my fingers clawing at the lapels of his coat. “It’s okay,” I slurred, tears and saliva smearing his skin. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” My good leg swung over his lap, my body a shuddering, desperate weight. I fumbled for his belt buckle, my hands clumsy with shock.
“Stop,” he growled, trying to peel me off, but my grip was frantic, insane.
“Please,” I whimpered, my mouth finding his, the kiss messy and desperate. I got his belt open, my fingers scrambling for his zipper. “I need… you need…” My logic was gone, shattered with the bone. All that remained was the imperative to connect, to feed, to finish the circuit his violence had started.
I yanked his trousers open. His cock sprang out, fully erect, the metal sound gleaming obscenely in the passing streetlights. I positioned myself over him, my body trembling from the overstimulation, from the shock, from the bizarre pleasure-pain still echoing from my shattered ankle. I tried to sink down onto him, but my leg wouldn’t support it. A cry of frustration burst from me.
Marius seized my hips, his fingers biting deep. His earlier horror was gone, replaced by a darker, more frantic urgency. The sight of me broken and begging, the feel of my violent tremors, the scent of my pain—it had vaporized the last of his restraint. He lifted me and impaled me on his cock in one harsh, unforgiving thrust.
The filled, stretched feeling was a brutal anchor in my whirling senses. I screamed again, my head falling back. He held me there, sheathed fully inside me, my ruined leg dangling. His own trembling was uncontrollable now, a great seismic shivering that vibrated through both of us.
He began to move me on his cock, short, punishing lifts and drops. The sound grated inside me, a relentless, internal friction. My own oversensitivity was a firestorm, each movement a new avalanche of sensation. I couldn’t come again—there was nothing left—but my body kept trying, clenching around him in ragged, involuntary pulses.
“I can’t,” he rasped into my ear, his breath hot and ragged. He was fucking up into me, his hips stuttering, chasing a release that the sound kept just out of reach. “Fuck, I can’t—” His words dissolved into a guttural snarl. He was trying to regain control, to master the rhythm, but the denied pressure had built to a torment that defied mastery.
He slammed me down onto him, over and over, his hands the only thing holding my shattered body together. His face was a rictus of agonized need, his icy eyes wide and unseeing. He was trapped in the exquisite hell he’d described, fucking my broken, willing flesh, unable to climax, unable to stop. The car filled with the sounds of our struggle: his ragged breaths, my helpless sobs, the wet, frantic slap of skin, the low creak of straining leather. He was trembling from the endless edge, and I was trembling from the wreck he’d made of me, and neither of us could find the end.
The car stopped. The engine cut, leaving a vacuum of silence filled only by our harsh breathing. The partition slid up. The driver’s eyes, carefully averted, watched the rearview mirror. “Your building, sir.”
Marius’s hands, still gripping my hips, unlocked their vise-like hold. He withdrew from me with a slick, shuddering pull that made us both gasp. He stared at the mess he’d made of me: my ankle already purpling and grotesquely swollen, my clothes disheveled, my face streaked with tears and exhaustion. His own cock, still painfully hard and gleaming wetly, seemed an accusation.
“Can you stand?” His voice was hollow, stripped of its earlier fury.
I shook my head, a numb movement. The pain was a distant, throbbing bell beneath the roaring static in my veins. He let out a slow breath, a sound of pure frustration. He rearranged his clothing with quick, efficient motions, tucking himself away, the obvious bulge a stark outline. He opened the door, cold night air rushing in.
He came around to my side, opened the door, and lifted me out. I cried out as my injured leg shifted, the pain flaring bright and sharp. He adjusted his grip, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back, cradling me against his chest. He carried me through the glittering lobby, past the night concierge who saw nothing.
In the elevator’s sterile light, his trembling became undeniable. It wasn’t the shake of strain from carrying me. It was a fine, relentless vibration that originated deep in his core and radiated out through his arms where they held me. His jaw was clamped so tight I could hear his teeth grind. The steel doors reflected his face—a mask of haunted, furious need.
“Which way?” he asked as the elevator doors opened onto the penthouse’s private foyer. His voice was gravel.
“Left,” I whispered, my head lolling against his shoulder. “Down the hall. Last door.”
Every step he took was measured, a forced march of control. But every few paces, a tremor would seize him—a full-body shiver that made his stride hitch, that made his arms convulse tighter around me. His denied, sounded cock was a live wire running through the center of him, short-circuiting his famed composure. He was a cathedral about to collapse from a flaw in its foundation.
He shouldered the bedroom door open. The room was vast, all cool grays and sweeping windows filled with the city’s electric grid. He laid me on the immense bed with a surprising, almost gentle care. The cool duvet felt like a balm on my heated skin. He stood over me, looking down, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice strained.
He turned and walked with that stiff, careful gait toward an ensuite bathroom. I heard the sound of running water, the clatter of a cabinet. He returned with a towel, a bowl of steaming water, and a long, slender box of medical supplies. He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted my ruined ankle onto his lap.
His touch was clinical, efficient. He palpated the swelling with cool, probing fingers. “The fibula is fractured. It will need setting.” He said it without looking at me, as if diagnosing a faulty appliance. Yet his hands were trembling, making his movements slightly unsteady as he soaked the towel in the hot water.
As he began to gently clean the dirt from my skin, his focus entirely on the injury, my hand drifted of its own volition. It crept across the bedspread, my fingers finding the hard line of his thigh. He went still. My fingertips traced upward, over the fine wool, until they found the hard, thick shape of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers.
He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “I said don’t move.”
“I can’t help it,” I murmured, my voice thick. The closer I got to his torment, the more my own fog of pain and overstimulation receded, burned away by the sheer radiant heat of his need. It was a deep, hollow ache in my own gut. My demon nature, starved and battered, latched onto it. My fingers clumsily worked at his belt buckle. “Please. Just let me… I can make it good. I can take the edge off.”
He made a sound, part groan, part snarl, and grabbed my wrist. “Your leg is broken.”
“I don’t care.” I was crying again, stupid, desperate tears. I twisted my wrist in his grip, my other hand joining the fight, fumbling for his zipper. “You need to come. You’re shaking apart. I can feel it. Let me feed. Let me help.” The words were a pleading chant. My need wasn’t sexual; it was visceral, predatory. His denied climax was a banquet I was starving for.
He stared at me, his icy eyes wild. My desperation was a mirror to his own. With a grunt of surrender that was also an act of violence, he released my wrist. “Do it then. If you can.”
It was all the permission I needed. I pushed myself up on my elbows, wincing at the fire in my ankle, and scrambled closer to him. I got his belt open, his zipper down. I pulled his trousers and boxer briefs just low enough to free his cock. It sprang out, fully erect, an angry red, the titanium sound a stark, glinting line buried in the flesh. A bead of clear fluid welled at the tip, quivering with his minute tremors.
I didn’t bother with finesse. I leaned forward, my tongue darting out to lick that bead away. The taste was salt, ozone, and pure, concentrated tension. I took the head into my mouth, my lips stretching around the girth and the unyielding metal core. I sucked hard, hollowing my cheeks, my tongue working frantically around the sound.
His hand flew to my hair, fisting in the strands. He didn’t push or guide. He just held on, as if I were an anchor in a storm. A ragged, broken groan was torn from his throat. “God… fuck…”
I bobbed my head, taking him deeper, until the head nudged the back of my throat. I swallowed around him, the constriction making him jerk. His hips gave an aborted thrust upwards, then he forced them still, fighting his own instinct. His trembling increased, a violent shudder running through him that I could feel in my mouth.
“More,” he gritted out, his voice shattered. “Use your hands.”
I obeyed, one hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, my thumb rubbing the sensitive spot just beneath his balls. The other hand cupped and squeezed them, feeling their tight, heavy weight. My mouth was a wet, tight channel, my tongue a persistent pressure on the frenulum, on the slit where the sound emerged. I was a machine built for this single function, milking him, worshipping the rigid length of him, desperate for the payoff.
But the sound was a blocker, a dam. I could feel him swelling, pulsing, teetering right on the precipice. His breath came in desperate, hitching gasps. His fingers tightened in my hair to the point of pain. “I’m… close,” he warned, a guttural sound.
I redoubled my efforts, slurping, sucking, my hand stroking in time with my mouth. He was right there, his body bowstring-tight, his thighs rigid. Then, a full-body convulsion seized him. A harsh, choked cry erupted from his chest. But nothing came. The orgasm, triggered by sheer neural overload, was trapped behind the metal obstruction. It was a dry, agonizing seizure of pleasure with no release. His cock throbbed violently in my mouth, jets of nothing, a phantom completion.
He shouted, a raw sound of fury and torment, and shoved me back onto the bed. He stood up, his cock still ragingly hard, his body quaking with the unfinished climax. “Enough,” he panted, the word full of self-loathing. “It’s enough.”
But it wasn’t. Not for me. The taste of his almost-climax was on my tongue, the echo of his shattered control in the air. It was the most potent thing I’d ever consumed, and I was ravenous for the rest. “Marius, please,” I begged, pushing up again, reaching for him. “Let me try something else. Let me ride you. I can do it, even with my leg, I can—”
“No.” The word was final. He walked back to the medical kit, his movements jerky. He pulled out a roll of surgical gauze tape, the kind that sticks to itself. He returned to the bed, his expression unreadable. “Lie back.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making it so you can’t move.”
He took my injured ankle first, wrapping it in a firm, professional support. The pain was a bright, clarifying spike. Then he moved to my good leg. He took my calf, lifted it, and began to wind the tape around my ankle and the bedpost. It was quick, efficient, and utterly inescapable.
“Stop, what—?” I struggled, but he pinned my other leg with ease and repeated the process, securing my left ankle to the other bedpost. I was spread-eagled, vulnerable, my broken leg stabilized but immobilized. He wasn’t done. He took more tape and secured my wrists to the headboard’s vertical bars, not tight enough to cut circulation, but with absolute, unyielding firmness.
He stood back, looking down at his work. I was completely bound, utterly at his mercy. The position pulled everything tight, exposed. My spent cock lay against my stomach. My overstimulated hole was offered up. Shame and a dark, dizzying thrill flooded me.
He finally removed his own trousers and underwear, kicking them aside. His sounded cock stood out from his body, a testament to his agony. He crawled onto the bed, kneeling between my splayed legs. His eyes traveled over my bound form, the purpling ankle, my heaving chest.
“You wanted to feed,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He ran a single fingertip, feather-light, from my sternum down to my belly, then through my pubic hair. He avoided my cock, circling instead around my trembling inner thighs. “This is how you feed.”
He leaned down and put his mouth on me.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a slow, deliberate, open-mouthed lick from my perineum to the base of my spine. I jerked against my bonds, a gasp tearing from my lips. The sensation was electric, a spark on gas-soaked kindling. My oversensitivity was a live wire, and his tongue was a deliberate, teasing conductor.
He did it again, and again, slow and thorough, mapping the skin of my inner thighs, the crease of my groin, everywhere but the core of my need. He used his lips, his teeth in gentle nips, the scratch of his stubble. He was painting me with sensation, layer upon layer, until my skin felt like it was vibrating. I was panting, arching my back as much as the tape allowed, trying to press myself against his mouth.
“Please,” I sobbed, “please, just touch me, fuck me, anything—”
“You get what I give you,” he murmured, his breath hot against my inner thigh. Then his tongue finally, blessedly, touched my hole.
I screamed. It was a direct line to my shattered nervous system. He didn’t penetrate, just licked and probed with a slow, maddening laziness. He was tasting me, teasing the ring of muscle that was still loose and tender from his earlier fucking. The dual sensations—the wet, hot slide of his tongue and the deep, bruised ache inside—were unbearable. My cock, hopelessly soft, gave a pathetic twitch.
He moved then, rising over me. He aligned the blunt, slick head of his cock with my entrance. He pressed in, just an inch, and stopped. He held himself there, a burning, stretching presence. He looked into my eyes, his own blown black with want and a terrifying tenderness.
“This is mine,” he stated, his voice thick. He pushed in another inch, achingly slow. “This wrecked, desperate body. This hunger. It’s all mine.” He seated himself fully, burying the sound inside me once more with a deep, grinding roll of his hips.
I was so full, so utterly claimed. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, embedded, letting me feel every inch of him, every millimeter of the metal. He leaned down and captured my mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. It was possessive, filthy, full of tongue and teeth.
When he finally began to move, it was with a slow, devastating rhythm. Each withdrawal was a sweet torture, each thrust back in a homecoming that hurt so good I saw stars. He fucked me with a deep, rolling pace that had nothing to do with his own release and everything to do with possession. His hands roamed my taped-down body, pinching my nipples, tracing my ribs, cradling my damaged ankle with a shocking gentleness.
My own pleasure was a distant, secondary thing, a faint echo of his overwhelming presence. But my need to feed, to connect, was being sated with every stroke, every grunt he breathed into my mouth, every tremor I felt run through his body into mine. He was marking me from the inside out, and I was drinking him down through my very pores.
He shifted his angle, and his next thrust brushed something deep, a spot that hadn’t been touched. A jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure-pain lanced through me. A sound, half-scream, half-moan, tore from my throat. He did it again, and again, finding that spot with unerring accuracy.
My body, impossibly, began to climb again. A real orgasm, not a forced, dry seizure, but a deep, gathering tide of sensation began to swell from my core. It built on the foundation of every previous violation, every moment of overstimulation. It felt inevitable.
He saw it in my face, heard it in my cries. He slowed, denying me even this. He leaned his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine, his hips making tiny, shallow circles that kept me right on the edge.
“Beg for it,” he whispered, his voice raw.
“Please,” I choked out, tears streaming down my temples. “Please, Marius, let me come. I need it. I need to come for you.”
He kissed me, deep and slow. Then he drew back and began to fuck me in earnest, hard, fast, deep strokes aimed directly at that perfect, ruinous spot. “Then come,” he commanded.
It was a tsunami. It rolled up from my toes, obliterating thought, pain, everything. My back arched as much as the bonds allowed, a silent scream locked in my throat. My cock gave one last, helpless spurt onto my stomach. My channel clamped around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that seemed to go on forever, a deep, full-body convulsion of release.
Through the haze, I felt him. He was still moving, still hard, still trapped on his own edge. His rhythm faltered, becoming ragged, desperate. He was chasing his own finish against the unyielding barrier, using my convulsing body as a futile tool. A broken, animal sound of frustration was torn from him.
He collapsed onto me, his weight a sweet comfort, his face buried in my neck. His whole body trembled with the force of his denied release. He was still inside me, still impossibly hard. We lay there, bound together, one of us shattered by pleasure, the other shattered by its lack. The only sounds were our ragged breathing and the faint, relentless hum of the city far below.