Chapter 5: Tremble
The car hit another pothole, a jolt that traveled up my spine and slammed the dildo against a spot so deep and sensitive I saw stars. A sharp, bitten-off moan tore from my throat and vibrated against Marius’s skin. His hand on my neck tightened, his fingers pressing into the tendons. The pain was a bright, clean counterpoint to the throbbing, liquid wreckage of my body.
Beneath my lips, his pulse was a frantic drum. I could smell the faint, clean sweat breaking on his temple. He was holding himself so still it seemed he might shatter.
My fingers, tangled in his shirt, found the small, hard nub of his nipple. I pinched it through the fabric, a slow, merciless twist. He inhaled sharply. His other hand came down to grip my thigh, his nails digging in through the wool of my borrowed trousers.
It was the opening I needed. The hand I had resting against his lower back, hidden from the driver’s view by our position, felt for the thin tube of the pump. My thumb found the small, ridged bulb. I squeezed it once, a short, firm compression.
I felt the immediate response inside him. A slight, involuntary tensing of his entire body, a clench around the invading object that was now a fraction larger. A low, shuddering breath escaped his lips, hot against the top of my head.
“Shh,” I whispered, licking the salt from his neck. “Just a little more. For the drive.”
I pumped it again. Then a third time. The plug inside him expanded steadily, the stretch becoming more profound, more undeniable with each tiny push of air.
On the fourth pump, he broke.
A raw, gut-deep sound burst from him, halfway between a groan and a choked-off curse. His hips jerked forward off the seat, a brutal, helpless thrust into empty air. The hand on my neck-able slackened for a second, then gripped me again with crushing force, as if I were the only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
“Enough,” he growled, the word ragged.
I stopped. I nuzzled his jaw, my own body singing with vicious triumph. The great Marius Volkov, brought to a public moan by a few pumps of a rubber bulb. The vibrating dildo inside me felt like a reward.
The car slid to a smooth halt. The driver announced our arrival at Le Pavillon d’Argent. The engine turned off, leaving a sudden, ringing silence filled only with our ragged breathing.
Marius released me. He took another deep, visibly collected breath, his face smoothing back into its impeccable mask. But his eyes, when they met mine, held a dark, promising violence. “Compose yourself,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Do not speak unless spoken to.”
We exited the car. The night air was cool, a shock against my feverish skin. The restaurant was a jewel box of gleaming brass and frosted glass, exuding whispered money and quiet power. A maître d’ with a face like a marble effigy bowed deeply and led us through a main dining room of hushed conversations and clinking crystal.
To my soaring relief, we were ushered not to a table, but to a secluded alcove at the back, shielded from the main room by a heavy, blood-red velvet curtain. It was a booth, plush and private. A sanctuary and a cage.
Marius moved to sit, and I saw it—the faintest hitch in his motion, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in his leg as he lowered himself onto the velvet bench. The plug was doing its work. The sight sent a fresh, liquid heat pooling in my already-full cunt.
I slid in beside him, our hips touching. The moment the curtain swished closed, enclosing us in a dim, intimate cocoon, the world narrowed to the two of us and the secret pressures we carried.
A server appeared with menus and water. Marius ordered for us both, his voice a model of curt elegance, naming dishes I’d never heard of. But as he spoke, his free hand, resting on the tablecloth, tightened into a white-knuckled fist. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down to his jawline.
The server left. The curtain fell back into place.
My own control was fraying. The vibrations, the sloshing weight in my gut, the relentless fullness—it was a symphony of need that demanded a conductor. My hand slipped under the table, resting high on Marius’s thigh. I could feel the heat of him, the muscle clenched tight.
I found the tube again. I looked at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw working. I pumped the bulb once. A short, firm push.
He faltered mid-sentence, his recitation of a preferred wine vintage stuttering into silence. His breath caught. He shifted on the seat, a clear, uncomfortable adjustment.
“Are you quite alright, sir?” I murmured, my voice dripping with false concern. My other hand came up to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. I pushed.
Not just a touch. I focused, drawing on the desperate, hungry core of my succubus nature. I didn’t steal energy. I projected it. I fed a concentrated thread of pure, humid arousal into him, a psychic aphrodisiac laced with submission and heat. It was the condensed essence of the moans he’d forced from me, the feel of him splitting me open, the abject worship I’d offered with my mouth. I wrapped that energy in a soothing, velvety calm and pushed it through my palm, directly into his chest.
He shuddered. A full-body tremor that he couldn’t suppress. His head fell back against the booth with a soft thud, his eyes closing. The frigid control shattered. Just for a second, but it was glorious.
“You little devil,” he breathed, the words strained with a want so deep it sounded like pain.
“I’m just soothing you, sir,” I whispered, my lips now at his ear. My hand on his thigh crept higher, finding the hard, impressive line of his cock straining against his trousers. I palmed him through the fine wool, feeling the thick, urgent pulse of him. “You seem tense.”
His eyes snapped open. The blue was almost black, consumed by pupil. The hunger there was no longer detached. It was voracious, personal. It was for me.
With a sudden, violent movement, he grabbed the front of my shirt and hauled me across his lap. The shift made the wine slosh violently, a cold tide threatening to breach the plug. The dildo vibrated against my cervix, a relentless stimulation. I gasped, straddling him, my knees sinking into the plush velvet on either side of his hips.
The curtain was our only witness.
He didn’t bother with finesse. His hands tore at my trousers, yanking them and my boxers down to my thighs. The cold air hit my soaked cunt, then his fingers did, plunging into the slick, stretched heat alongside the vibrating toy. He curled them, scraping over the silicone, finding my swollen, sensitive spots with brutal accuracy.
“You wanted a reaction,” he snarled, his mouth against mine. His breath was hot, his kiss a devouring, biting clash of teeth and tongue. “You got one. Now you’ll take the consequences.”
He fumbled with his own belt and fly, shoving his clothing aside. His cock sprang free, thick and achingly hard, the head flushed a deep, angry red. He positioned it at my entrance, already stretched and slick around the dildo.
“Take them both,” he commanded, his voice guttural.
He pushed up, and I sank down.
The stretch was obscene. Impossible. My body screamed in protest, a white-hot tear of penetration as his flesh forced its way in alongside the thick, vibrating silicone. I was crammed full, split wide, every inch of my inner channel occupied and abused. A broken, continuous wail poured from my throat, muffled by his shoulder.
He didn’t wait for me to adjust. He began to fuck me, his grip on my hips iron-hard, pulling me down onto him and driving up into me with a savage, piston-like rhythm. The two cocks inside me—one hard, hot flesh, one unyielding, throbbing silicone—rubbed against each other, creating a friction that burned through my core. Each of his thrusts shoved the dildo deeper, hammering it against the deepest, most tender parts of me.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his own composure utterly gone, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “That’s your cleverness. That’s your victory. You’re nothing but a sheath for my cock and your own toy.”
The stimulation was too much. It was agony and ecstasy fused into a single, unbearable feedback loop. My orgasm built not as a wave, but as a landslide, gathering mass and devastation from every tortured, overfilled nerve ending.
“Marius… I can’t… I’m gonna…” I babbled, my head lolling.
“Come,” he ordered, his pace becoming punishing, erratic. “Come around both of them. Show me what your victory is worth.”
The command broke me. The climax detonated, a silent, screaming supernova that locked my spine and blinded me. My cunt contracted in violent, fluttering spasms around the twin invader, milking his flesh and clamping on the silicone. The sensations amplified, echoing back and forth between them, prolonging the crash into a endless, shuddering freefall.
My cock, trapped between our sweating stomachs, spilled untouched, streaks of come painting his pristine white shirt.
My convulsions tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep grind that seated him to the root, he came. I felt the hot, pulsing flood of his release joining the mess inside me, another layer of wet heat in the already-soaked channel. He groaned—a long, low, surrender of a sound—his body shuddering through his own release.
We collapsed together in the booth, a tangled, breathless, disheveled heap. The vibrations of the dildo continued, a now-absurd humming against our oversensitive flesh. The wine sloshed heavily in my gut.
Silence reclaimed the alcove, thick and heavy, broken only by our gulping breaths and the distant murmur of the restaurant. Slowly, reality seeped back in. The curtain. The public space just beyond. The cooling come on our clothes.
He moved first, pulling out of me with a wet, sucking sound. The sudden emptiness was a cavernous chill. He looked down at the ruin of his shirt, at my trembling, exposed body in his lap, at the blatant evidence of what we’d just done in a Michelin-starred restaurant.
His expression was unreadable. The frantic hunger was gone, replaced by something colder, more contemplative. He righted his clothing with swift, efficient motions, then pushed me off his lap onto the bench beside him. He picked up the remote from his pocket and finally, mercifully, switched off the vibrator.
The sudden silence inside me was louder than the hum had been.
He looked at me, his gaze sweeping from my smeared eyeliner to my open trousers. “Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice restored to its usual, calm timbre, but with a new, sharp edge underneath. “The first course will arrive shortly.”
He picked up his cloth napkin and handed it to me. Then he picked up his own, dabbing calmly at the stains on his shirt, as if they were simply water spots.
I wiped myself with shaking hands, the rough linen abrasive on my raw flesh. The wine churned, a threatening, unsettled sea. I felt hollowed out and simultaneously overstuffed, victorious and utterly defeated.
The curtain twitched. The server’s discreet cough preceded him. “Your amuse-bouche, Mr. Volkov.”
Marius nodded gracefully, as if he were not sitting in a sex-soaked booth with a demonic wreck. “Thank you.”
The small, exquisite bite was placed before each of us. Marius picked up his fork. He took a delicate, deliberate bite.
He chewed. He swallowed. He looked at me, his icy eyes holding a dark, unspoken calculus. The game had shifted again. He had lost control, and he had allowed me to see it. I had no idea what the cost of that knowledge would be, but as I sat there, feeling his come leak out of me onto the expensive velvet, I knew with cold certainty that the bill would come due. And it would be exquisite.
And it would be exquisite.
The amuse-bouche was a cruel parody of sustenance. My throat was too tight to swallow anything but the metallic taste of tension. Across from me, Marius consumed his with a detached, clinical precision, the earlier frenzy sealed away behind his eyes. He dabbed his mouth with the napkin, the one he’d used to clean his shirt, and set it aside.
“You will eat what is put in front of you,” he stated, his voice a low hum in the private alcove. It wasn’t a suggestion.
I forced a tiny, buttery pastry past my lips. It turned to ash on my tongue. My entire awareness was a gridlocked intersection of sensations: the deep, phantom ache of being recently fucked raw, the cold, sloshing weight in my gut, the lingering slickness between my thighs.
He reached into his pocket. The small, black remote control emerged, resting beside his wine glass. His index finger hovered over the button.
My breath hitched.
He pressed it.
The vibration inside me reignited, not the low thrum from the car, but a sharp, insistent buzz that felt like a trapped hornet against my cervix. A jolt went through me, my fork clattering softly against the plate. My abdominal muscles clenched reflexively, squeezing the reservoir of wine. A cramp, hot and slicing, twisted my insides.
“Eat,” he repeated, watching me sweat.
I took another bite, chewing mechanically, as the vibrations continued their merciless work. They were tuned to a frequency that was pure irritation, a relentless tease that scraped my already-overstimulated nerves. Pleasure and pain had fused into one indistinguishable, vibrating agony. My cock, still soft and spent, twitched pathetically against my thigh.
Another course arrived. A delicate, translucent soup. The server’s eyes never left the center of the table, professionally blind. The curtain fell shut.
Marius took a spoonful of soup. He pressed another button on the remote.
The vibration pattern changed. It began to pulse, a slow, rhythmic throb that mimicked a heartbeat. My own heart stammered in response. A warm, unwelcome tension began to coil low in my belly, beneath the cold weight of the enema. It was too soon. My body was too raw, too used. Yet the mechanical pulse was ruthless, a systematic override of my exhaustion.
A soft, pathetic sound escaped me. My spoon trembled.
“The wine is a Château Lafleur 1982,” Marius commented idly, swirling his glass. “A remarkably structured Pétrus. Try it.”
I grabbed my glass, gulping the dense, expensive liquid. It didn’t help. The throbbing between my legs was building, a rising tide against a dam of soreness and oversaturation. My stomach muscles tightened again, another painful squeeze around the liquid burden. The cramp made me see white spots.
I needed to shift the focus. My leg brushed against his under the table. My hand, hidden by the long tablecloth, found his knee and slid upward. I found him still hard, a formidable line of heat confined within his trousers. I unzipped him, my movements fumbling but determined.
He didn’t stop me. He took another sip of wine, his gaze fixed on the curtain as if monitoring for intruders.
I freed his cock, wrapping my fingers around the thick, velvet-skinned shaft. He was already leaking, a bead of moisture welling at the slit. I smeared it down his length, establishing a slow, tight rhythm. My thumb circled the frenulum with each upward stroke.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath. His hips gave a minute, involuntary thrust into my fist.
I leaned forward, as if intently studying my soup, and dipped my head under the table. The world shrank to the dark space beneath the linen, the scent of starch, his musky heat, and the relentless pulse inside me. I took him into my mouth.
The taste of him, clean skin and salt and precum, was anchoring. I sucked him deep, using my tongue to press against the sensitive vein on the underside. I hollowed my cheeks, creating a tight, wet vacuum. Above me, I heard the soft click of the remote.
The vibration inside me jump to a higher, more frantic setting.
A climax, small and sharp, was ripped from me without permission. My body convulsed, my cunt clenching violently around the dead silicone. The abrupt contraction crushed the wine in my gut, sending a spear of cramping pain through my lower belly so intense I gagged around his cock. My jaw went slack.
I came silently, shuddering, a thin, pathetic stream of release dripping from my untouched dick onto the restaurant’s carpet. The orgasm was a blunt, painful shock, devoid of pleasure, a mere neurological spasm. Tears of overload sprung to my eyes.
I didn’t stop sucking him. I redoubled my efforts, my hand joining my mouth, stroking what I couldn’t take. My other hand, trembling, found the pump tube trailing from him. I gave it two firm, rapid squeezes.
He jerked above me, his thigh muscles going rigid against my cheek. A low groan, beautifully tortured, filtered down. His hand came down, tangling in my hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“More,” he gritted out, his voice strained.
I pumped the bulb again, inflating the plug further inside him. He was so tight, the resistance palpable through the rubber. I suckled the head of his cock, my tongue flicking rapidly over the slit, drinking the increased flow of his precum.
Click.
Another orgasm tore through me. This one was a wave of nauseating intensity. My stomach spasmed, a hard, punishing knot that threatened to expel everything inside me right there under the table. I rode it, my mouth still working him, stroking him faster. I was sobbing openly now, tears and saliva mixing on his shaft.
I was a factory of breakdowns, each contraction milking the toy, each cramp a aftershock of the enema. The vibrations were constant, a hijacking of my central nervous system. My world was the taste of him, the ache in my gut, the electric fury between my legs, and the desperate need to hear him break.
I pumped the plug again. And again.
His breathing was a ragged, public disgrace. Pants and choked-off moans. His control was a distant memory. He was thrusting shallowly into my mouth, his grip on my hair bordering on painful.
“Close… I’m close,” he warned, the words tight and shattered.
Click. The remote again.
A third orgasm, this one a protracted, whimpering collapse. It felt like my insides were turning themselves inside out. I couldn’t breathe. I just clung to his cock, my mouth a wet, slack prison for him, as my body betrayed me in endless, pulsing waves.
He was poised on a knife’s edge. I could feel the tension singing through him, the brutal clench of his ass around the inflated plug, the throbbing urgency in his cock. I pulled off, gasping for air, and looked up.
His head was thrown back, his neck corded. Sweat darkened the collar of his ruined shirt. His jaw was clenched so tight I heard his teeth grind.
I stroked him fast, my fist a tight, slick tunnel. “Come for me,” I whispered, my voice wrecked. “Let it go. Right here. All over the table.”
He shook his head, a minute, frantic motion. The denial was primal. He would not. Not here.
With a final, Herculean effort, he grabbed my wrist, stopping my hand. His entire body was trembling, a sustained vibration that matched my own. He breathed in huge, shuddering gulps, fighting back the tide.
The moment hung, suspended in the humid, sex-scented air of the booth.
He pushed me away, back onto my side of the seat. His movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. He tucked himself back into his trousers with shaking hands, the zipper a difficult feat. He dropped a handful of large bills onto the table, not waiting for the check.
“Get up,” he managed, the words raw.
I tried. My legs were water. The wine sloshed, a heavy, sickening reminder. My cunt was a raw, throbbing mess. Another weak, involuntary pulse of climax shivered through me, just a faint echo, but it made my knees buckle.
He caught me, his arm around my waist, hauling me upright. His strength was still immense, but the steadiness was gone. He was shaking, a fine, constant tremor of frustrated, agonizing need. The plug inside him, now fully inflated, was a torment he refused to relinquish.
We stumbled past the curtain into the soft light of the restaurant. A blur of curious, averted eyes. Every step I took sent another minor, shocking convulsion through me. I was almost continuously coming, tiny, desperate peaks that kept me gasping, my stomach clenching and aching around its cold, red weight.
He nearly dragged me through the lobby and out into the neon-streaked night. The cool air was a slap. He fumbled for the car door, yanked it open, and shoved me inside before collapsing beside me. He slammed the door, enclosing us in sudden, profound silence.
“Drive,” he barked at the chauffeur. “Now.”
The car pulled away from the curb. In the dark backseat, Marius Volkov, sovereign demon of Manhattan, hunched forward, his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. A single, frustrated, furious sound was muffled by his palms.
Beside him, I curled against the door, rocking slightly with the motion of the car. Each small vibration of the engine, each turn, triggered another soft, helpless whimper and a fresh, hot trickle of release into my ruined trousers. The civic rebuild was immaterial. The soreness was irrelevant. My body was simply a circuit stuck in the closed position, arcing endlessly, a feedback loop of shattered sensation.
He had made me cum again and again. I had edged him to the brink of madness. In the trembling dark, we were both prisoners of the same unbearable equation, hurtling toward a penthouse where the terms would be reset. The bill, I knew, was being tallied in the silence between his shuddering breaths and my continuous, quiet ruin.