Chapter 6: Begging
The car became a cage of shared, trembling ruin. The silence between us was a live wire, buzzing with the aftermath of what we’d done and the unresolved, agonizing pressure of what hadn’t been allowed to finish.
My own body wouldn’t stop. Miniature aftershocks kept rippling through me, involuntary clenches around nothing, each one wringing another thin dribble of cum onto the leather seat. I was a leaky, overstimulated mess, trembling from the inside out. But a dark, giddy power surged through the weakness. I had brought him to the brink. I had made the sovereign demon shake.
He was rigid beside me, staring out the window at the blurring city lights. His knuckles were white where they gripped his own thigh. I could feel the furious, desperate energy radiating from him, a static charge that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. The inflated plug was still inside him, a constant, stretching reminder of his denied release.
My hand, moving on its own vengeful accord, crept back onto his leg.
He didn’t look at me. “Don’t.”
The word was a slab of granite. I ignored it. My fingers walked higher, found the wet spot on his trousers where my mouth had been, and pressed down. Through the fabric, I felt the hard, thick line of him, still trapped, still painfully erect.
“You’re going to break me for this later,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Let me earn it.”
My hand slipped inside his open fly. My skin met his, burning hot and silken. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, soaked with his own precum and my saliva. I gave him one long, slow, tight stroke from root to tip.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. A low, guttural sound escaped his clenched teeth.
I worked him, my rhythm slow and deliberate, a cruel parody of tenderness. My thumb smeared the bead of moisture at his slit, spreading it around the swollen head. Every few strokes, I’d squeeze just beneath the crown, the way I knew tipped him toward the edge.
His breathing grew ragged. His hips began to shift, tiny, helpless thrusts into my fist. His head fell back against the seat, his eyes closed. “Reese…”
“Yeah?” I breathed, quickening my pace. His cock was a slick, heavy weight in my hand, jumping with his heartbeat. I could smell him, taste him still on my lips. My own exhausted body responded, a faint, pathetic throb of interest from my spent cock. Another tiny orgasm, more a neural flutter than a true climax, whispered through my groin. I whimpered, my hand never stopping its relentless motion.
“I’m close,” he gasped. It was a confession ripped from him. “Fuck, I’m right there.”
I could feel it. The tensing of his entire body, the way his balls drew up tight, the frantic pulse under my palm. The precipice. I slowed my strokes, softening my grip, switching to a maddeningly light, teasing touch with just my fingertips.
He snarled, a sound of pure animal frustration. “Don’t you fucking stop. Let me come.”
“Beg for it,” I moaned, as another soft, uncontrollable spasm made my thighs shake. A fresh trickle of my own release seeped into my trousers. The duality was exquisite: me, a leaking, broken vessel, him, a king on the verge of begging.
His eyes opened. The blue was incandescent with need, stripped of all icy calculation. “Please.” The word was alien in his mouth, raw and shattered. “Please, let me come.”
Hearing it, that single broken syllable from Marius Volkov, triggered another small, devastating climax in me. My back arched off the seat, a silent scream on my lips as my cock twitched dryly. “No,” I gasped when I could speak, resuming a firm, punishing rhythm with my hand. I brought him back to that trembling, hair-trigger edge, feeling him swell and pulse in my grip.
Then I stopped. Completely. I just held him, my fist a tight ring at the base of his cock, strangling the orgasm that was fighting to erupt.
He cried out—a short, sharp sound of pure agony. His body bowed, every muscle corded tight. He shuddered violently, trapped in the searing limbo between climax and denial. A single tear of sheer frustration tracked through the sweat on his temple.
I watched him, panting, marveling at the wreck I’d made. I leaned close, my lips brushing his ear. “Not yet.”
The car slid to a halt. We were home.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. We sat in the humming silence, two creatures welded together by shared, unbearable tension. Then, with a suddenness that stole my breath, he moved.
He erupted from the car, dragging me out after him by my arm. His grip was iron, bruising. He didn’t wait for the elevator; he hauled me through a discreet side door and up a narrow, concrete service staircase. Our footsteps echoed in the hollow space, mingling with our ragged breathing. He took the stairs two at a time, pulling me stumbling behind him, my body protesting every jolting step.
He burst into the penthouse, a torrent of silent fury, and didn’t stop until we were in the vast, marble bathroom. He slammed me back against the cold wall, his body pinning me. His hands went to my trousers, yanking them down around my ankles with a brutal efficiency. The cold air hit my wet, sticky skin.
He turned me around, facing the large, ornate mirror. His eyes met mine in the reflection. They were black pits.
“Hold onto the sink,” he commanded, his voice shredded.
I obeyed, my fingers slipping on the cool porcelain. I heard the slick, wet sound of him removing the inflatable plug from himself, followed by a sharp, relieved hiss. Then his hands were on me. One hand spread my asscheeks wide. The other, slick with lube he’d grabbed from a cabinet, found the base of the dildo still buried in me.
With one brutal, steady pull, he drew it out.
The sensation was obscene. A long, slow, emptying drag that scraped every over-sensitized nerve. I cried out, my knees buckling. He held me up, letting the thick, slimy toy fall to the marble floor with a wet slap.
“Now the other,” he growled. He didn’t mean the vibrator. He pushed two fingers into my fucked-open hole, curling them, searching. He found the thin tube of the enema plug. A sharp tug, and the seal broke.
It was a flood. A hot, red rush of wine gushed out of me, splattering against the inside of the toilet bowl he’d maneuvered me over. It wasn’t graceful. It was a violent, cramping evacuation, my body convulsing as it expelled the violation. I shook through it, humiliated, relieved, hollow.
When it was over, I was a shell. Spent, empty, trembling. He let me sag for a moment, then turned me to face him again. As I stood there, exposed and wrecked, a shift occurred. A succubus’s final, reflexive alignment. My genitals, the ambiguous, slick mess, resolved. The folds smoothed, retracted, reformed. My cock, which had been soft and spent, thickened, lengthened, became fully, undeniably male. It lay against my thigh, half-hard from the relentless stimulation, glistening and sensitive.
Marius watched the transformation, his expression unreadable. He cupped my new flesh in his cold hand, weighing it. A blunt, clinical assessment. “Better,” he stated, devoid of warmth.
He pushed me forward, bending me over the lip of the enormous sunken tub. My cheek pressed against the cold marble. From a drawer, he produced something new. It was a sphere of thick, black rubber, deflated, with a thin tube and a pump attached. An inflatable plug, but the size, when filled, was implied to be monstrous.
He lubed it, a cold, generous slick. He didn’t prepare me. There was no gentle stretching, no easing. He pressed the deflated ball against my stretched, tender hole and pushed.
I screamed. The width was impossible, even deflated. It was a solid, invasive pressure, breaching me with a brutal, burning shove. He didn’t stop until the entire sphere was lodged inside, the tube trailing out.
“Now,” he breathed into my ear, his own breath hot and uneven. “We continue.”
His hands gripped my hips. I felt the thick, hard length of his cock, freed from his trousers, nudge against my newly-formed ass. He was going to fuck me. But first…
His fingers found the pump for the inflatable plug inside me. He gave the bulb a slow, deliberate squeeze.
I felt it. A soft expansion deep inside my rectum, a subtle pressure becoming less subtle. A moan was torn from my throat, a sound of protest and unwelcome, deep-throated pleasure. The stretch was already immense.
In the mirror’s reflection, I saw him watching my face. His own was a mask of furious concentration. He began to rock his hips, the head of his cock sliding through the cleft of my ass, smearing precum, but not entering. He was teasing us both.
With my own trembling hand, I reached back. I found the base of the inflated plug still in his ass—he’d reinserted it. I pressed my palm against it, then shoved.
He groaned, his rhythm stuttering. I pushed the plug deeper into him, feeling the tight, hot clutch of his body around the foreign object. “You like that?” I panted, my voice broken. “Still full? Still wanting?”
In answer, he gave the pump in his hand another firm squeeze. The ball inside me inflated further. The pressure became a demanding, expanding presence. It wasn’t just in my ass; it felt like it was filling my entire lower belly, crowding my organs. A choked cry escaped me.
He fucked the air beside my entrance, his cock a hot, tantalizing threat. “Beg me,” he said, his voice dark with promised violence. “Beg me to fuck you while I fill you up.”
“No,” I whimpered, even as my body arched back against him, seeking the penetration he withheld.
Squeeze.
The ball grew. It was the size of a large orange now, a firm, unyielding sphere distending me from the inside. I could feel the strain in my muscles, a deep, burning fullness. My cock, which had softened, began to stiffen again, trapped between my belly and the cold marble of the tub.
“Please,” I heard myself gasp. “Marius… it’s too much…”
“It’s not nearly enough.” His voice was ice and fire. He squeezed the pump again, a long, slow compression.
It expanded. A grapefruit. The stretch was excruciating, a tearing, burning sensation that morphed inexorably into a grotesque, deep pleasure. My hole was stretched taut around the tube, my insides remolded around the sphere. I was moaning continuously now, a low, desperate drone. My hands scrabbled for purchase on the slick marble.
I reached back again, frantic, finding his plug. I didn’t just push it this time. I worked it, twisting it slightly, fucking him with the object inside him. He shouted, a raw, unchecked sound, and his hips jackhammered against my ass, his cock now slamming against my perineum with each thrust.
“Let… let you come…” I rasped, my own pleasure coiling, a snake ready to strike. The massive ball inside me was a blinding focal point of sensation.
“You don’t give me permission,” he snarled, and gave the pump another series of squeezes.
It swelled. A cantaloupe. A melon. I was being split open, filled beyond capacity. My vision greyed at the edges. I could feel the shape of it inside me, a vast, spherical intrusion. I was distended, my belly protruding slightly with the sheer volume of it. I was so full I couldn’t breathe. Every tiny movement sent shockwaves through my core.
“Please!” I screamed, the word tearing from my throat. “Please, fuck me, please, I can’t, I can’t take it, it’s too big, please just fuck me!”
He was panting, dripping sweat onto my back, teetering on his own edge. My manipulation of his plug had him shuddering, his control a frayed thread. With a final, brutal squeeze of the pump, he inflated the ball to its maximum limit—a size that felt inhuman, impossible.
I shattered. A scream, raw and endless, ripped from my lungs as my body convulsed in a dry, wrenching orgasm that felt like it was tearing me apart from the inside out. My cock jerked, spitting nothing but clear, painful fluid onto the marble.
In my climax, my hand spasmed on his plug, shoving it as deep as it would go.
He roared. His hands clamped on my hips like vices. He slammed into me, finally, finally sheathing his cock in my ass in one brutal, driving thrust. The feeling of being penetrated atop the already overwhelming fullness of the ball was a sensory catastrophe. I saw white. I heard nothing but a high-pitched whine.
He fucked me with short, savage jerks, his body slamming against the inflated sphere inside me, using me as a vessel for his own frantic, denied release. The pain was celestial. The pleasure, a deranged cousin.
“Come,” I sobbed, mindless, broken. “Just come, please, come in me!”
Three more punishing thrusts. He buried himself to the hilt, his body locking, a tremor wracking him from head to toe. A hot, furious flood erupted inside me, filling a space that felt already catastrophically full. His release seemed to go on forever, a pulsing, claiming heat that mingled with the impossible pressure of the ball.
He collapsed over me, his weight driving me deeper into the marble edge, driving the ball deeper still. We hung there, a tangled, breathing ruin, pinned together by his softening cock, the monster in my ass, and the plug in his.
The only sounds were our shattered breaths and the slow, wet drip of fluids on marble. The bill, it seemed, was being paid in mutually assured destruction. And the interest was compounding by the second.
He withdrew from my body slowly, the slide of his spent cock a rough, burning aftermath. The impossible weight of the inflated sphere remained, a planet lodged in mycore. Marius left it there, the tube trailing from my stretched hole like an obscene umbilical cord. He stepped back, his breath still ragged, watching me with eyes that had regained a sliver of their glacial calculation, but only a sliver.
I pushed myself up from the tub’s edge, every movement a seismic event inside me. My legs threatened to fold. I turned, my back against the cold marble, facing him. My whole body was a tremor, a fine, constant vibration of overuse and shock. My new cock, sensitive and half-hard, twitched against my thigh.
“Still standing,” Marius observed, his voice scraped raw. A compliment or a challenge.
I didn’t answer with words. I sank to my knees on the hard floor. The descent made the sphere shift, a deep, rolling displacement that forced a choked gasp from my lips. I knelt before him, the dampness from the wine and our sex cooling on my skin. He was still hard, or hard again—his cock stood thick and flushed, gleaming with our mixed fluids.
I looked up at him, my smudged eyeliner probably giving me the look of a ruined raccoon. I reached out a shaking hand and took his length in my grip, feeling the astonishing, silken heat of him. I leaned forward and took him into my mouth.
The taste was a complex history of the evening: salt, iron, crisp wine, and his own dark, musky essence. I sucked him gently at first, my tongue lapping at the head, swirling around the sensitive ridge. A soft groan floated above me. I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting him hit the back in a slow, practiced rhythm. My other hand cupped his balls, weighing them, feeling the tight drawn-up tension there.
“Teasing me now?” he murmured, his fingers threading into my sweaty hair, not guiding, just resting there like a threat.
I pulled off with a wet pop. “Just returning the favor,” I whispered, my voice wrecked. I was shaking so badly my teeth threatened to chatter. I went down on him again, this time with more purpose, sucking harder, using my hand to twist on the upstroke. I could feel the vibration in my own jaw, a sympathetic tremble to the larger quake consuming my body.
He let me work for a minute, his hips giving minute thrusts. Then his free hand found the small remote on the marble counter. I heard the distinctive, soft click.
A deep, internal buzz ignited inside the sphere crammed in my ass.
The vibration wasn’t surface-level. It was a profound, resonant thrum that seemed to emanate from the very center of the inflated ball, transmitting through the solid rubber to massage my deepest internal walls. A broken, muffled scream vibrated around his cock. My whole body jerked, my knees sliding apart on the tile. My stomach cramped violently, muscles seizing around the foreign bulk. The sensation was less about pleasure now and more about a systematic, electrical override of my nervous system.
I didn’t stop sucking him. The vibration became the metronome for my rhythm. Each deep internal pulse made me clench, and each clench made me suck harder, a feedback loop of desperate sensation. Tears streamed down my face, blending with the spit and precum slicking his shaft. I was drooling, losing fine motor control, but my mouth kept moving, a wet, warm, trembling prison for him.
He was trembling too. His thighs quivered where they framed my face. His breath came in sharp gasps. “Fucking… hell,” he gritted out. His hand in my hair tightened, pressing me down further. I took it, letting him fuck upward into my throat, the head of his cock bumping against my soft palate with each thrust.
We were a circuit of mutual torment. The vibrator in me maddened him through my uncontrollable reactions. My mouth, sloppy and desperate, was dragging him back to that fevered edge he’d been denied in the car. His hips began to move in earnest, a shallow, frantic piston into my face. I gagged, sputtered, but held on, breathing raggedly through my nose. My own cock was achingly hard again, a painful throb against my belly, leaking clear fluid onto the floor.
I pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening head. “Close?” I rasped, the word mangled.
“Don’t you dare stop,” he warned, his voice a dark promise of retribution.
I smiled, a wobbly, pathetic thing. My stomach was a knot of cramps, the vibrations a relentless internal massage. I was so full I felt dizzy. I stroked him with my hand, fast and tight, my thumb pressing hard into the frenulum on every upstroke. I watched his face, saw the exquisite torture there, the porcelain mask fully shattered.
“Not here,” I panted suddenly. “Not on the floor.”
With a Herculean effort, I pushed myself up. My legs screamed. The egg inside me felt like a lead weight. I took his hand, pulling him, stumbling, from the bathroom’s clinical brightness into the sprawling, dim living room. He followed, a statue of tense, needful muscle, the plug still seated deep within him.
I led him to the vast, low sofa, plush and black. “Sit,” I said, my tone hovering between a request and a command.
He looked at me, a long, measuring look. Then, slowly, he sat back. The motion made him inhale sharply. As he settled his weight, the inflated plug inside him was driven fractionally deeper, seated more completely. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, a spasm of intense feeling crossing his features.
I knelt on the floor between his spread legs. The position made the egg inside me press unbearably against my prostate. A ragged moan escaped me. I leaned forward, my hands on his thighs, and took his cock back into my mouth.
This time, it was worship and warfare. I sucked him with a desperate, begging intensity, my tongue flat and wide against the underside of his shaft. I hollowed my cheeks, creating a vicious vacuum. I could taste the imminence of his climax, a salty, electric tang. My own body was a symphony of painful stimuli: the deep, buzzing fullness, the cramping abdomen, the ache in my jaw, the raw, begging need of my own untouched cock.
“Gonna come,” he grunted, his hips lifting off the couch. His hands fisted in the sofa fabric. “Right down your fucking throat.”
I pulled off, gasping. “Not yet.” My voice was a ghost. With one trembling hand, I reached between his legs. I found the base of his plug, the hard silicone nub against his skin. My fingers traced the thin tube leading to the pump, which rested on the couch beside his hip.
I locked eyes with him. His were wide, dark with a mix of fury and utter, consuming need.
I squeezed the pump. A short, hissing burst of air.
He jolted as if electrocuted. The plug inside him expanded, just a little. A gasp was ripped from his chest.
I took him in my mouth again, sucking ferociously, my hand still on the pump. I gave it another squeeze, longer this time. Another incremental inflation. The stretch inside him was already profound; this was a deliberate, cruel addition.
He cried out, a beautiful, shattered sound. His back arched. “You little…”
I squeezed the pump again, a slow, continuous compression while I deep-throated him, my nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. The plug swelled further, filling him beyond his previous limit, stretching him in tandem with the way the egg was stretching me.
It was a silent, trembling standoff, relayed through pulses of air and the frantic motions of my mouth. He was panting, shuddering, so close to the edge he was shaking with the effort of holding back. The vibrations inside me never stopped, a constant, maddening hum that kept me teetering on my own precipice. We were two overloaded circuits, each trying to surge into meltdown first, each using the other’s body as the conduit to destruction.
I squeezed the pump one more time, inflating him to what had to be his absolute limit, and swallowed him whole, my throat working around him.
That was the final wire cut.
With a roar that seemed to shake the penthouse windows, he came. The climax was violent, an eruption. Hot, bitter cum flooded my mouth in relentless, pulsing jets. I drank it down, swallowing convulsively, milking him with my throat as his body was racked by the most powerful orgasm I’d ever drawn from anyone.
The sight, the taste, the finality of his loss of control triggered my own collapse. The vibrations, the fullness, the sheer psychological victory detonated something deep in my gut. My orgasm was a silent, full-body seizure, a dry, wrenching convulsion that bent me double over his legs. My cock spasmed against nothing, offering only a few drops of clear, painful fluid as my insides clamped mindlessly around the gigantic, buzzing egg.
I slumped forward, my forehead resting on his thigh, spent, hollow, and utterly shattered. His softening cock slipped from my lips. The only sounds were the hum of the vibrator inside me and our broken, intermingled breaths.
His hand, surprisingly gentle, came to rest on the back of my sweat-damp head. We stayed like that for a long time, in the silent carnage of the living room, the interest paid in full, for now, in mutually claimed ruin. The sphere inside me continued its relentless, vibrating proof.