Chapter 15: Teaaing
The silence after the seizure wasn’t peaceful. It was a held breath. Marius’s weight was a furnace on top of me, his still-hard cock a dull, persistent ache inside my oversensitive channel. His tremors had subsided into a fine, constant vibration, like a machine idling on a faulty gear. My own body was a map of pain and fading euphoria—the throbbing, expertly wrapped ankle, the raw tenderness between my legs, the phantom echoes of the climax he’d wrung from me.
He finally pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at where we were joined. His expression was hollow, ravaged. The sovereign demon was gone. In his place was a creature of pure, thwarted need. He withdrew from me slowly, the sound a cool slide against abused flesh. He sat back on his heels between my taped-down legs, staring at his own cock. It stood, obdurate and gleaming, a monument to his torment.
I watched him, my breathing slowly settling. The tape on my wrists and good ankle was secure, but not cruel. A restraint, not a punishment. My power, feeble as it was, had always been about absorption, about gently sipping emotional energy from the periphery of human interactions. But this… this concentrated, nuclear-grade need pouring off him was something else. It called to the base instinct of what I was.
“Untie me,” I said, my voice scratchy.
His icy eyes flicked to mine. He didn’t move.
“You need something I can do,” I pressed. “And I can’t do it like this.”
A long moment passed. Then, with a silence that was more profound than any curse, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the tape on my wrists. Instead, his fingers went to the bindings on my ankles. He unwound the tape from my good leg first, his touch impersonal, then carefully unwrapped the support from my fractured one. The release of pressure was immediate, a flood of relief followed by a sharp, biting pang. He finally freed my wrists, the tape pulling at my skin.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my wrists. My body felt wrecked, but a new current was moving under the surface. A cunning, desperate energy born of his proximity to breaking. I swung my legs off the bed, hissing as my injured foot touched the floor. He just knelt there, watching me, a king dethroned by his own flesh.
I reached for him. My hand wrapped around his cock, not to tease, but to assess. The metal was warm from his body heat. I could feel the frantic pulse of his blood around it, a river dammed. I leaned in, pressing my lips to the swollen head, tasting the salt of his frustration. Then I pushed my will into it.
It wasn’t a grand magic. I had no capacity for that. It was a succubus’s trick, a subtle warp in perception, a gentle push of suggestive energy. I focused it on the metal, imagining it not as a barrier, but as a conduit. A channel for feeling.
I took him into my mouth, deep, letting the sound press against the back of my throat. And as I sucked, I fed that subtle magic back down the length of him, a feedback loop of sensation. The sound wasn’t just an object anymore; it became an extension of my mouth, of my intent. Every pull of my cheeks, every flick of my tongue, was amplified, translated directly into a sharper, more insistent pressure inside him.
He gasped, a short, sharp inhalation. His hands came down to my hair, not to guide, but to clutch. “What… are you doing?”
I pulled off, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening tip. “Fucking you,” I said simply. I shifted my weight, ignoring the fire in my ankle, and straddled his thighs. I took his cock in hand, guiding it to my entrance. I was slick and open from before, from my own come and his. I sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable motion, sheathing him fully inside me.
The fit was punishing, glorious. I braced my hands on his shoulders, my bad leg held awkwardly to the side. Then I began to move. Not for my pleasure, but for his destruction.
I rode him with a slow, grinding rhythm, clenching my internal muscles around the intruding sound on every upward stroke. My magic, pitiful and thin, hummed along the connection. With each descent, I imagined the sound expanding infinitesimally, stretching the sensitive inner passage of his cock, a phantom fullness growing from within.
His head fell back, a tendon in his neck standing out like cable. “Stop,” he groaned, but his hands grabbed my hips, holding me down, forcing me to take him deeper.
“You don’t mean that,” I whispered, leaning close to his ear. I rolled my hips, a corkscrew motion that made him shudder. “You’re so full of me. Can you feel it? The sound… it’s getting bigger, isn’t it? Filling you up. My magic’s inside your cock, Marius. You’re being fucked by it.”
It was a lie, a psychological warping, but with my energy feeding the suggestion into his hyper-sensitive system, it became his truth. His breath came in ragged pants. Sweat beaded on his temple. His magnificent control was unraveling, thread by thread.
“You fucking little parasite,” he snarled, but it was devoid of heat, full of broken glass.
“Yeah,” I agreed, nipping at his jaw. I sped up, bouncing on him now, my body slapping against his. The pain in my ankle was a distant scream. All that mattered was the feel of him swelling impossibly harder beneath me, the tremor in his hands on my hips, the raw, open need on his face. “This is what I am. And you’re letting me. You’re begging for it.”
He was. He wasn’t saying the words, but his body was a screaming petition. His hips jerked up to meet my falls, his grip on me was bruising, his eyes were squeezed shut against the onslaught of sensation. The imagined expansion, fueled by my magic and his own desperate belief, was pushing him to a brink he’d never known.
“Please,” the word escaped him, a torn-up, ragged thing. His eyes opened, blue fire melting into pleading pools. “Reese… please.”
I slowed, hovering over him, keeping him fully impaled but still. “Please what?”
“I can’t… I need to come. I need it to stop.” The admission cost him. His pride lay in tatters around us.
“You want me to let you come?” I murmured, brushing his sweat-damp hair from his forehead.
A desperate, jerky nod.
“I could,” I said, almost conversationally. I rocked gently, a tiny, maddening motion. “But what do I get? You’ve taken everything. Broken my leg. Used me up. I’m starving, Marius.”
His mind, fogged with need, latched onto the transactional. “What do you want?”
I leaned in, my lips a hair’s breadth from his. “When you come… I feed. I take it all. The energy, the power, the release. I drink it down. And you don’t stop me.” I kissed him, deep and filthy. “And you don’t come just once. You give me six.”
His eyes widened. Six consecutive orgasms, after being denied for so long? It was a physiological gauntlet.
“No,” he breathed.
I started to lift off him.
His hands clamped down, holding me in place. “Yes. Alright. Yes. Anything. Just… please.”
The victory was a hot, dark bloom in my chest. I kissed him again. “Promise.”
“I promise,” he gasped, the words rushing out. “Now, for fuck’s sake, let me cum.”
I shifted my weight, reaching between our bodies. My fingers found the flanged base of the sound where it met the head of his cock. He flinched at the touch. I looked into his eyes, seeing the centuries of control shatter completely, and pulled.
The slick, metallic slide as it exited his body was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He cried out, a sound of profound, shocking relief mixed with agony. The blockage was gone.
The effect was instantaneous.
His orgasm didn’t build. It detonated.
His back arched off the bed, every muscle seizing. A raw, animal roar was torn from his throat, a sound that seemed to shake the penthouse windows. His cock, finally free, jerked violently against my stomach. The first jet of come was a hot, thick flood that splashed up to my chest. The second followed instantly, another pulse of wet heat. He kept coming, body convulsing, hips bucking uncontrollably beneath me. It wasn’t a release; it was a system purge, a volcanic eruption of pent-up seed and power.
And I fed.
I opened myself to it, my succubus nature gaping wide. The psychic backlash of his climax hit me like a tidal wave—centuries of restrained power, icy dominion, and frantic, human-like need. It wasn’t gentle. It was a violent infusion, a blinding white noise of energy that rushed into the hollow spaces of my being. My head snapped back. A matched cry spilled from my lips as the stolen power crackled through my veins, a secondary, parasitic climax ripping through me. My own cock, soft and spent, twitched against his stomach, adding nothing but a weak shudder to the chaos.
He was still coming, the pulses weakening but not ceasing. His eyes were rolled back, his body thrashing in aftershocks. I drank it in, gorging myself on the decadent waste of his release. The high was immediate and obliterating. My pain vanished, submerged in a euphoric tide of stolen potency. My senses sharpened to a painful degree. I could hear the rustle of sheets like thunder, see every pore on his skin, smell the rich, musky scent of his spend mixed with ozone and raw power.
As the last tremors subsided, he collapsed, utterly spent, his chest heaving. He was soft, finally, lying in the mess he’d made. A vulnerable, ruined thing.
I looked down at him, buzzing with his energy. The hunger was gone, replaced by a swollen, arrogant fullness. And a different, more immediate hunger woke in its place. A purely carnal, greedy need stoked by the power now coursing through me.
He was depleted. He’d promised six.
I smiled, a slow, predatory curl of my lips. My hand, trembling with stolen strength, wrapped around his softening cock. It was wet and warm. I began to stroke him, firmly, with a newfound confidence. My other hand pinched his nipple, hard.
His eyes fluttered open, dazed and empty. “No… I can’t…”
“You promised,” I sang softly, my voice vibrating with borrowed power. My magic, now fat and bright from his essence, slipped into him again—not to suggest expansion, but to demand arousal. To kick-start a weary system. “That was only one.”
I leaned down and took his spent cock into my mouth, sucking hard, pouring my will into him. The response was slower, a reluctant stirring. But under the dual assault of my mouth and my magic, fueled by the energy he’d just given me, his body began to betray him again. Blood flowed, flesh thickened. Within minutes, against all biological reason, he was hard again in my mouth, a half-soft ache becoming a renewed, trembling erection.
He moaned, a sound of utter defeat. “Please… no more.”
I released him with a pop. “Yes, more,” I whispered, my own cock now hard and pressing against his thigh, eager and fueled by his sacrifice. I guided him back inside me, sinking onto his renewed hardness. “You’re mine until I’m full. And I’m still very, very hungry.”
I began to move, riding him with a vigorous, selfish rhythm, chasing my own pleasure this time, using his body as a tool, high on the power of his first devastating climax and intent on wringing out the next five. His promises echoed in the space between our ragged breaths, a contract written in desperation, and I was here to collect.
His promises echoed in the space between our ragged breaths, a contract written in desperation, and I was here to collect. I rode him with a frenetic, bruising rhythm, my body no longer my own but a vessel for the stolen energy coursing through me. Each slap of skin was a greedy demand for more.
"You feel that?" I panted, my hands braced on his chest. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the ceiling. "That's your power. It's mine now. It's making me so fucking hard." My cock, thick and aching, left smears of pre-cum on his stomach with every bounce.
He didn't speak. His jaw was a rigid line. His hands, which had once gripped me with bruising force, lay limp at his sides. But his body, traitorously, responded. His hips gave a feeble, involuntary twitch upwards.
I gloried in it. I clenched around him, imagining my inner walls milking not just his cock, but the very essence he'd spilled into me. "Come on, Marius. Number two. Give it to me." I leaned down, biting his lower lip, sucking it into my mouth. "Feed me again."
A low groan vibrated in his chest. His hands finally moved, sliding up to grasp my hips, but the grip was weak, more for stability than control. His surrender was complete. His orgasm, when it came, was a shallow, shuddering thing. A few weak pulses of seed deep inside me, a quiet exhalation that was more relief than release.
The energy siphoned from him this time was thinner, but it still snapped into me like a live wire. My vision sparked at the edges. I gasped, my own neglected cock throbbing with a need that was almost painful. "Fuck, yes," I slurred, rolling my hips to milk the last of him. "That's it.Good."
I didn't let him soften. I kept moving, my hand slipping between us to jerk his slick, sensitive cock as I rode him. "Stay hard," I whispered, pouring the energy I'd just taken back into him, a vile circuit of forced arousal. "You have four left."
The third climax was a dry, convulsive heave. His body bowed, muscles corded, but little more than a bead of fluid emerged. The psychic drain this time was sharper, a lancing pain that dissolved into pure, euphoric heat in my core. I was buzzing, vibrating, every nerve ending shrieking with hyper-awareness. My own need was a frantic drumbeat.
"Four," I chanted, my voice rough. I was relentless, a machine of consumption. His cock was red, almost purple, a brutalized thing. I took it in my mouth, sucking with a vicious hunger until it stiffened again against my tongue, a pathetic mimicry of its former glory.
The fourth release was just a tremor, a few spasms of his prostate with no emission. The energy I pulled from it was a trickle, but it was enough to push me to my own edge. I straddled his face, shoving my aching cock into his mouth. "Suck," I commanded, my fingers tangling in his hair. "Make me come while you give me number five."
He obeyed. His mouth was slack, his technique gone, but the wet heat and the degrading act were enough. As his body gave another weak, internal shudder—the fifth—I climaxed down his throat. My come hit the back of his mouth in hot, salty pulses. I cried out, the pleasure magnified a thousandfold by the cascade of stolen power roaring through my system.
I was a nova. I was a gluttonous, swollen star of need. Every touch of air on my skin was an agonizing tease. My cock, even after orgasm, felt raw and hungry. I rolled off him, panting, my body slick with sweat and spend. Marius lay broken beside me, breathing in shallow hitches. Utterly spent. The sixth and final promise hung unfulfilled in the air, a hollow victory.
I reached for him, my hand trembling with unbearable arousal. I needed to touch him, to wring out that last bit, to complete the feast. My fingers, slick with my own come, traced the overstimulated length of his cock.
His hand closed over my wrist. The grip was weak, but it stopped me.
I looked at him, confused, the power inside me making my thoughts swim. His eyes were open. The emptiness in them was gone. In its place was a cold, clear focus, like arctic water. The depth of his exhaustion had been a plinth, and something older had settled back onto it.
"No more," he said. His voice was a dry rustle, but it held a finality that froze my blood.
He pushed my hand away, not with violence, but with an effortless, dismissing motion. Before I could process it, he moved. He was on me, his weight pinning me to the mattress. His exhaustion seemed to vaporize, replaced by a predatory efficiency that was far more terrifying than his earlier fury.
"I believe I promised you six," he whispered, his lips against my ear. His hand slid between my legs, fingers probing the wet, stretched mess of me. "But the feast is over, little succubus. It's time to return what you stole."
He didn't prepare me. He didn't need to. One moment his fingers were testing my entrance, the next, his whole hand was forcing its way inside me. I shrieked. The stretch was obscene, impossible, a brutal invasion that tore a white-hot line of agony and shocking fullness through my core. My body, already overstimulated and throbbing from my own climax, went into a seizure.
He fucked me with his fist, a slow, grinding torsion that rearranged everything inside. The stolen power within me, so smug and settled, erupted. It didn't just fade; it was siphoned, violently pulled back through the connection his brutal penetration forged. It ripped out of me, a reverse current of screaming energy, flowing back into him.
I felt him grow stronger with every passing second, his breaths deepening, his body hardening against mine. I felt myself diminish, collapsing back into my own frail, painful form. The glorious high vanished, leaving a crushing, hollow hangover.
He curled his fingers inside me, finding a spot that made my vision blank. My body, betrayed and wrung out, convulsed around his wrist. An orgasm was torn from me, a dry, wrenching spasm that felt like my soul was being pulled out through my cunt. It was nothing but agony and involuntary contraction.
He absorbed that, too. I felt the flicker of my own pathetic power, the dregs of what I was, get swallowed by his vast, reconstituting presence.
"Six," he breathed into my ear, his voice now rich, resonant, and utterly in control."As promised. But you misunderstand the transaction. You don't feed on me." He twisted his hand. "I metabolize you."
He began to move his fist in earnest, a brutal, pistoning rhythm that stole the breath from my lungs. I could only take it, a pinned insect, my shattered ankle a dull throb beneath the acute torture in my core. My cock lay flaccid, ignored. This was beyond sex. It was reclamation.
He opened his hand inside me, splaying his fingers wide. The stretch was catastrophic. A second orgasm, purely neural, a fireworks display of pain signals mistaken for release, detonated through my nervous system. I screamed, a broken, continuous sound, my back arching off the bed as I sprayed a thin, clear fluid into the air.
He held his hand there, splayed, claiming the space, as my body fluttered around his knuckles. He watched my face, his own composed, a slight, cruel tilt to his mouth.
"All that beautiful, stolen power," he murmured, slowly withdrawing his hand, the drag agonizing and final. "Back where it belongs. And you..." He looked down at the wreck of me, trembling, leaking, empty. "You are back where you belong."
He rose from the bed, a figure of restored dominion. He walked to the bathroom, and I heard the water run. I lay there, a void wrapped in pain, the echoes of his fist still resonating in the deepest parts of me. The city's light through the windows painted cold lines across the ceiling, and across the vast, uncrossable distance between us.
The city's light through the windows painted cold lines across the ceiling, and across the vast, uncrossable distance between us. Marius returned from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel, utterly clean. He looked like a man who had just finished a vigorous, satisfying workout, not an act of soul-siphoning. My body was a cramped, echoing cavern. I couldn’t feel my own power anymore. It was just… an absence.
“Get up,” he said, tossing the towel aside. He was already pulling on a dark silk robe. “Time for a proper drink.”
My limbs wouldn’t obey. The order felt physical, a command that bypassed my wrecked nervous system. I slid from the bed, my fractured ankle buckling instantly. I caught myself on the nightstand, a cry of pain wrenched from me.
He watched, expressionless, as I hobbled. He offered no help. Eventually, I stood, shivering, naked and slick with our mutual mess. He gestured with his chin toward the main living space.
The room was all clean lines and daunting scale. A wet bar of black granite gleamed under recessed lighting. He moved behind it with an easy, proprietorial air. I leaned against a chrome stool, leg held gingerly above the floor.
He didn’t reach for a bottle of whiskey. Instead, he produced a dark, green-glassed bottle of Bordeaux and a smaller, crystalline vial filled with a liquid that shimmered with an internal, opalescent light. My stomach, already clenched with dread, twisted into a tighter knot.
“What is that?” My voice was a rasp.
He didn’t answer. He poured a substantial measure of the deep red wine into a carafe, then uncorked the vial. The air smelled suddenly of overripe peaches and a sharp, metallic bite. He tipped three thick drops of the shimmering liquid into the wine. It swirled, absorbed, turning the Bordeaux a darker, almost venous purple.
“Turn around,” he said. His tone was conversational. “Bend over the bar.”
This was not an invitation to sex. It was preparation for a procedure. The fist-fucking had been reclamation. This was something else.Inventory? A tax on my earlier temerity? The predatory calculation had returned to his eyes, sharper than before. My stolen meal was already being processed into his renewed strength, and this was the interest payment.
I didn’t move. My hands gripped the cold granite edge of the bar.
He came around from behind it. He placed one hand between my shoulder blades, not shoving, but applying an inexorable, downward pressure. It forced me to arch over the polished stone surface, my cheek pressed against its chilling smoothness. My bad leg trembled violently. He kicked my feet apart.
I heard the quiet click of a plastic cap. A cold, lubricated nozzle pressed against my hole. It wasn't his cock. It was clinical.Hard.
“Please,” I whispered, the word a pathetic scrape against the stone.
The single syllable was a rusty nail driven into the air between us. He paused, the plastic tip a persistent, indecent pressure. My mind fractured, caught between the animal panic constricting my throat and a deeper, older hunger that stirred like a waking serpent at the absolute authority in his stillness.
His silence expanded, filling the room. It wasn't consideration; it was assessment. Weighing the value of my plea against the architecture of his intention. The cold, slick nozzle remained, a fixed point of impending violation.
He leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, his breath a dry, scentless exhalation. "‘Please’? Elaborate." The words were a surgeon's probe. "Please stop? Or please...continue?" He shifted his weight, a minute adjustment that ground the plastic harder against my resisting muscle.
My thoughts dissolved into static. A dozen responses formed and shattered. I could lie. I could beg for mercy he didn't possess. The truth coiled in my gut, a hot and shameful strand. The phantom ache of his fist was still a vivid echo, a brutal engraving on my nerves. The memory of my own stolen euphoria, that brief, blinding sovereignty, was already an addiction. I hated him. I craved the annihilation only he could administer. The contradictions tore a sob from my chest.
Before I could shape another word, he acted. The nozzle breached me with a single, efficient thrust. My body jolted, a sharp protest lost in the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Not with flesh, but with a relentless, lukewarm flood.
He had already depressed the plunger.
It wasn't water. The viscosity was wrong. It was the wine, warm from his hand, thick with the dissolved aphrodisiac. It poured into my colon with a heavy, invading weight. I gasped, fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick granite.
"Hold still," he commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. He held the nozzle deep, his other hand settling on the small of my back, pinning me effortlessly.
The filling was slow, deliberate, and endless. I felt the liquid snake deep, a spreading, internal warmth that rapidly became a bloat. My abdomen tightened. A low moan escaped me, part distress, part shock at the strange, full sensation. The aphrodisiac hit my bloodstream not through my stomach, but through the thin, absorptive walls of my gut. A heat different from the wine’s blossomed under my skin—a prickling, insistent arousal that awoke despite the fear.
"You see," he murmured, clinical, observing. "It's a more efficient delivery system. Direct. The portal for waste becomes the vessel for intoxicants." He pushed more of the concoction in.
My stomach, or the space where it used to be, began to distend. I could see it rounding, pushing out against the underside of the bar’s overhang. The pressure was immense, a dull, expanding ache that pressed against my spine, my lungs. I panted, shallow breaths doing nothing to relieve the cramping fullness. When I thought I would rupture, he stopped. He withdrew the nozzle with a soft, wet pop.
He stepped back. "Look."
He guided me, his hand firm on my shoulder, turning me to face the wall of dark glass that served as a backsplash. My reflection was monstrous. My pale torso was grotesquely swollen, my navel stretched taut, stomach protruding like I was in a late, unnatural term. The sight stole my breath. I looked pregnant with his punishment.
Tears of shame and visceral shock tracked down my face. Yet, beneath the pressure, the aphrodisiac hummed. My cock, soft and spent moments ago, began to thicken, fattening against my thigh, a traitorous response to the sheer vulnerability of my form.
"Beautiful," he said, not to me, but to the accomplishment. He trailed a single finger down the curve of my bloated belly. The touch was electric, sending jolts of wrong, degrading pleasure through me. He walked to the front of the bar, retrieving the sound—the same titanium instrument of his prior torment.
He took his seat on a stool, facing me, his robe falling open. He was hard again, the sight of my degradation a potent stimulant. He held the sound, its polished length catching the light. "Come here."
I shuffled, cradling my swollen stomach with one arm, my other hand keeping weight off my ankle. Every movement sloshed the wine inside me, a nauseating, intimate tide.
"Kneel."
I lowered myself with a gasp, the shift in position making the liquid weight settle downward, a sharp cramp seizing my gut. I knelt between his spread thighs, my inflated stomach resting on the floor, an absurd, humiliating shelf.
He didn't touch my cock. He didn’t touch my stretched hole. He took his own rigid length in one hand, slicking it with a drop of saliva, and with the other, he brought the narrow end of the sound to the slit of my cock.
"Wait," I breathed, panic flaring. "That's not—"
"It's a channel," he interrupted, his voice calm, instructive. "Everything is a channel."
He pressed. The metal tip, cool and unyielding, breached my urethra. The sensation was a bright, sharp line of wrongness, a scream from a place never meant to be touched. He pushed it in, slowly, an inch. The internal stretch was microscopic, excruciating. I cried out, a high, ragged sound.
He began to stroke his own cock in a slow, lazy rhythm as he worked the sound deeper into me. "The human body is a network of tubes, Reese. You filled one of mine. Now I'm exploring another of yours." He slid the sound in another inch.
I trembled, my hands fisting at my sides. The dual assault was obscene—the deep, cramping fullness in my gut, and this sharp, intrusive penetration in a nerve-rich tract. My stomach churned, clenching around the wine. The pain from my urethra spiked, a white-hot needle. A shockwave traveled through my pelvis.
My body, hijacked by the aphrodisiac and wired for any extreme sensation, interpreted the peak of the pain as a trigger. An orgasm, dry and violent, seized me. My cock, impaled on the metal, jerked in his hand. My abdomen convulsed in a hard, painful clamp, squeezing the enema deep inside me, forcing the drugged wine higher, pressure blossoming behind my ribs.
I screamed, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.
As I convulsed, a visible, shimmering thread of energy—the pitiful remnant of my own succubus essence, my life force—pulled from my shuddering form. It flowed, not toward him, but into the sound itself, the metal acting as a conductive siphon. The titanium glowed faintly, and the energy traveled up its length, into his fingers, and was absorbed into his skin. He sighed, a small exhalation of satisfaction, his stroking hand pausing as he took it in.
The climax subsided, leaving me wheezing, tears and snot on my face, the sound still buried deep in my cock. He hadn't even come.
"Two more," he said, his voice soft.
He began moving the sound, a tiny in-and-out motion, a fucking of this most delicate passage. The friction was unbearable, a grating, fiery abrasion inside me. I sobbed, my swollen stomach heaving with each breath. The pain built again, a cresting wave. I thrashed my head, trying to escape it, but it was inside me, inextricable.
"Please, stop, I can't—"
"You can," he whispered. "And you will."
He twisted the sound.
The second pain-induced orgasm tore through me like a bolt of lightning. My body arched, back bowing, stomach squeezing so tight I vomited a thin stream of bile onto the floor between his feet. Again, my power was siphoned off in a visible, draining rush, leaving me colder, weaker. My vision tunneled.
He pulled the sound almost all the way out. I shuddered in relief for a single, fleeting second.
Then he pushed it back in, deeper than before, stretching the tiny canal to a breaking point. The scream I produced had no sound, just a desperate, airless rasp. The third climax was a seizure, a total systemic failure. My limbs flailed. My stomach, a rigid, painful drum, seemed to lift off the floor with the force of the internal clench. I blacked out for a moment, my consciousness fleeing the overload.
I came to slumped over, my forehead on the cool floor, the sound finally removed. A raw, burning agony throbbed in my cock. My stomach was still grotesquely distended, churning with the trapped, drugged wine. I was a husk. Empty of power. Empty of will. Yet, a low, thrumming humiliation buzzed in my veins, inseparable from a dark, undeniable arousal.
I was powerless. Utterly. And the sheer totality of it, the complete erasure of my autonomy, was the most potent turn-on I’d ever known.
He stood, towering over me. He was fully erect, untouched. He nudged my side with his bare foot.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice satiated, rich with the energy he’d stolen. “Then come to bed. You’ll sleep chained to the frame. To remind you.”
He walked away, leaving me in a puddle of my own vomit, pain, and degrading, unwanted desire. The distance between us was no longer vast. It was absolute. He was the master of the house. And I was a reclaimed, broken appliance, waiting for his next instruction, a hollow part of me already aching for it.