Chapter 8: Dominance
The silence after was profound, broken only by the wet, ragged sounds of our breathing. His taste lingered, a sterile, electric sharpness overlaying the salt of sweat and saltier tears. I slowly withdrew from his mouth, my cock sliding free with a soft, damp sound. I lifted myself from him, the movement sending a fresh ache through my own exhausted limbs.
Below me, Marius lay shattered. His chest heaved, his skin sheened with a fine, cooling sweat. His eyes were closed, but the tears had tracked paths through the tension on his face. His arms lay limp at his sides, the pale, elegant skin marked by deep, angry red lines from the silk ropes. The divine, sovereign demon looked used. Broken. Mine.
A tenderness, sharp as a blade, cut through the haze of my own satisfaction. I moved carefully, kneeling beside his hips. My fingers, surprisingly gentle, went to the intricate knots at his wrists. I worked them loose, the silk slipping free. His hands flopped to the black sheets, palms up, fingers curled slightly. The vulnerability of that gesture—the unguarded openness—stole my breath.
I leaned over him, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat. His pulse hammered against my mouth, a frantic, captured bird. I kissed a path up the strong column of his neck, feeling the tremor that ran through him. My hand spread across his chest, stroking the firm muscle, soothing the frantic beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot.
“Breathe,” I whispered into his ear, my voice ragged. “Just breathe.”
He dragged in a shuddering gulp of air, then another. His hands, slowly coming back to life, lifted. One came to rest weakly on my lower back, the other tangled in my damp hair. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding on. He turned his face, his lips brushing my temple. A silent acknowledgement. A transfer of weight.
We stayed like that for long minutes, a tangle of spent limbs on the soaked sheets. The city’s light bled around the edges of the blinds, painting us in stripes of neon grey. His breathing evened, deepened. The tremors subsided, replaced by a heavy, languid exhaustion. I nuzzled into the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—sex, power, and a strange, new softness.
Then, the hand in my hair tightened. Not painfully, but with a deliberate, gathering firmness.
I felt the change in the air before I saw it. The languor evaporated, replaced by a creeping, electric tension. The hand on my back began to move, no longer a comfort but a claim, tracing the notch of my spine with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle.
I pulled back to look at him.
His eyes were open. The ice-blue was back, but clouded, stormy with a recovered, focused ferocity. The vulnerability was gone, sealed behind a sheet of glass. He was still sprawled beneath me, still naked and covered in the evidence of his surrender, but he was no longer broken. He was calculating. The balance of power, so thrillingly tilted in my favor, was righting itself with a terrifying, silent swiftness.
“That,” he said, his voice a rough scrape, “was an impressive… diversion.”
Before I could process the words, his body moved. It was a fluid, brutal uncoiling. He rolled, pinning me beneath him with effortless strength. The weight of him, the solid heat, was a shock. My brief reign was over.
“My turn,” he breathed, and the words were not a request.
He kissed me, and it was nothing like the desperate, reciprocal clash from before. This was a conquering. His tongue shoved into my mouth, claiming, tasting himself on my lips. It was aggressive, devoid of tenderness, a reassertion of boundary and dominance. When he broke it, I was gasping.
He shifted down my body, his hands gripping my thighs, pushing them apart. His gaze was fixed on my cock, which, despite the exhaustion, had begun to thicken again under his scrutiny.
“You have a remarkable capacity for recovery,” he mused, his tone clinical. “Let’s test its limits.”
He reached over to the nightstand, the same one that had held the lube and the rope. This time, he opened a different drawer. The object he retrieved made my blood run cold. It was a long, tapered piece of medical-grade silicone, obsidian black, with a tiny inflatable bulb at its base and a trail of thin wires. A urethral sound. An advanced, cruel-looking one.
“Marius, no,” I heard myself say, the bravado gone, replaced by a thin edge of panic.
“No?” He arched a perfect brow, running a thumb over the tapered tip. “You orchestrated seven of my orgasms. You think that doesn’t incur a debt? This is the interest.”
He lubed the sound with a viscous, cooling gel. The gesture was methodical, unhurried. He held my gaze as he took my cock in his other hand, his grip firm, immovable. “Breathe out,” he commanded.
I tried to struggle, but his weight was an anchor. The tapered tip pressed against my slit. It was an impossible intrusion, a violation of the most intimate channel. I whimpered, a high, tight sound, as he applied relentless, steady pressure. There was a burning, stretching sensation, a profound wrongness as the silicone breached my urethra. It slid inward, an inexorable invasion, deeper and deeper until I felt it press against something deep inside me, a sensitive, untouched place that screamed in protest.
“Fuck… fuck, please, stop,” I begged, tears springing to my eyes.
“We’re just getting started,” he murmured.
His thumb found a small pump connected to the bulb. He squeezed it. I felt a pressure blossom inside my cock, the bulb inflating, stretching my urethra from the inside out. It was a full, aching, terrifying expansion. I cried out, my hips bucking helplessly.
Then he connected the wires to a small, black remote. “This,” he said, his voice a dark caress, “delivers a mild electrical stimulus. To keep you… aware.”
He pressed a button.
A jolt, sharp and bright and terrible, shot up the length of my cock, sparking directly into my prostate. My entire body seized. It wasn’t pure pain; it was pain fused with a lightning bolt of forced, brutal arousal. A strangled scream tore from my throat.
“Oh God…”
“Not God,” Marius corrected softly, watching the tears roll down my temples. He pressed the button again. Another jolt, this one longer. My back arched off the bed, my fingers clawing at the sheets. My cock, trapped by the sound and the electricity, was painfully, impossibly hard, throbbing around the foreign object inside it. Pleasure and pain blurred into a single, white-hot wire of sensation.
“Please, take it out,” I sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t…”
He ignored me. He moved off the bed, walking to a glass cabinet I hadn’t noticed before. He returned with a large, polished onyx box. He placed it on the bed beside my hip and opened the lid.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, were eggs. They were the size of goose eggs, but their surface was not smooth. It was a swirl of iridescent, volcanic glass, deepest black shot through with veins of crimson and gold. They hummed with a low, demonic energy, a predatory warmth that I could feel from inches away.
“These,” Marius said, picking one up, his fingers curving around its girth, “are from a rather rare breed of lava drake. They require a… specific environment to incubate.” He held it up, and the light from the window caught the fiery veins. “A human body would be torn apart. But you… your little succubus form repairs itself so prettily.”
Horror dawned, cold and slick. “No.”
He coated the first egg in a thick, clear gel. The smell of sulfur and ozone filled the air. “You took seven,” he said, his voice devoid of all mercy. “Let’s see how many you can hold.”
He positioned himself between my legs, which he pushed back toward my chest, exposing me completely. The cool air on my stretched, vulnerable hole made me shiver. The lubricated tip of the egg pressed against my entrance. It was massive, far larger than the sphere from the night before.
“Marius, please, you can’t–” My plea was cut off by a low, pained groan as he applied pressure.
The egg didn’t yield. My body did. There was a tearing, burning stretch as the widest part of the egg began to breach me. I screamed, a raw, animal sound, as my flesh gave way, the sensation of being split open more intense than anything I’d ever known. It was a searing, impossible fullness. Just as the pain crested into blinding whiteness, I felt a weird, crawling tingle deep in my core—my demonic essence, stitching the ripped tissue back together even as he pushed the egg deeper.
It was a cycle of agony and rapid, unnatural repair.
The second egg met resistant, newly-healed flesh, and he pushed it in anyway. A scream ripped from my throat, raw and shredded, as the stretch surpassed anything before. My back bowed off the mattress, every muscle corded. The electric sound in my cock sent a vicious, galvanizing shock through my core, fusing the agony with a spark of involuntary, shameful arousal. He worked the egg deeper with a brutal, twisting motion, past the barrier of muscle, into the tender cavity within.
“That’s two,” he said, his voice detached, clinical.
He didn’t wait for my body to fully knit itself back together before presenting the third. The pressure was a continuous, building tsunami. I could feel the eggs inside me, a solid, impossible weight. My stomach, previously flat, now showed a subtle, firm distention. He slid the third egg home, and a guttural, broken sound was all I could manage. My hands scrabbled at his arms, nails digging in, but he was immovable stone.
“You feel them, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning close, his breath hot on my ear. “Settling.”
He fed me a fourth, then a fifth. Each insertion was a world-ending event. My demonic physiology tore and sealed, tore and sealed, a frantic, biological rebellion against the intrusion. The stretch became a permanent, screaming state of being. My belly was visibly rounded now, taut skin stretched over a growing, internal load. I panted, tears and sweat mixing on the sheets.
“Six,” he counted, his hand resting on the pronounced curve of my abdomen, feeling the shift of the obsidian spheres inside me. He pressed down, and I shrieked, the eggs grinding against each other, against my screaming organs.
Seven. Eight. Nine. My world narrowed to the push, the tear, the searing-healing-stretch, and the cruel, periodic jolt from the sound that kept my tortured cock achingly hard. My stomach swelled, a high, firm dome. I looked… pregnant. Heavier. Full in a way that distorted my form. Ten. Eleven. Each new egg made the previous ones press outward, stretching my skin to a shiny, desperate tightness.
At twelve, I was sobbing openly, hiccupping pleas that held no meaning. My body was a overloaded vessel. He ran a cool, appreciative hand over the massive swell of my belly. “Beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
The thirteenth egg was the worst. There was no room. He had to press, and press, using his full weight to force it past the threshold. Something inside me gave way with a wet, internal pop, followed instantly by the horrifying, crawling sensation of magic suturing it. I blacked out for a second, the world graying at the edges. When I came to, the fullness was astronomical. My stomach was enormous, high and round and taut as a drum. I looked like I was carrying twins, overdue and ready to burst.
I could only lie there, wrecked, breathing in shallow, pathetic hitches. Every tiny shift of my body made the eggs grate together internally, sending fresh, nauseating waves of pressure through my core. My distended belly dominated my field of vision.
Marius admired his work, his hand resting on the curve. He gave my stomach a gentle, rocking push.
The eggs slid, a heavy, internal roll. I gasped, a sharp, shocked sound, my hands flying to clutch the monstrous swell.
“Up,” he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He disconnected the wires from the sound, leaving the inflated bulb lodged deep in my urethra, a constant, aching reminder. “We’re not done.”
“I can’t,” I whimpered, the words slurred. The sheer weight was anchoring me to the bed.
“You can, and you will.” He grasped my arm, his grip iron, and hauled me upright.
The world tilted. The eggs settled low and heavy in my gut, a shifting, solid mass that pulled my center of gravity forward. I staggered, my legs trembling, hands instinctively cradling the enormous curve of my belly. Walking was a slow, waddling agony. Every step sent a deep, internal jostle through me, making me bite my lip to keep from crying out.
He guided me, his hand on the small of my back, through the penthouse and into a kitchen of stainless steel and dark granite. The clinical brightness was a shock. “Dinner,” he stated, releasing me near the refrigerator. “Make something.”
I swayed on my feet, leaning against the cold fridge door for support. The eggs felt like they were grinding against my spine. “Marius… please…”
“I’m thirsty.” He turned his back, walking to a bar cart. He selected a crystal decanter of bourbon, the liquid catching the light like molten amber. He poured two generous glasses, the clink of crystal loud in the silent room. He brought one over, placing it on the counter next to me. “Cook.”
He retreated to a stool at the kitchen island, sipping his drink, watching me with detached interest.
Every movement was a study in torment. Bending to get a skillet from the lower cabinet was impossible. I had to squat, my knees protesting, the full weight of the eggs bearing down, threatening to topple me forward. A low moan escaped me as I straightened, the contents of my stomach sloshing heavily. I could feel each individual sphere.
I gathered ingredients—eggs, ironic and cruel, cheese, butter. The simple acts of cracking shells and grating cheese were Herculean tasks. My hands shook. A periodic, dull cramp would seize my lower abdomen, making me freeze, panting through it, while Marius sipped his bourbon.
I took a desperate gulp from my own glass. The alcohol burned, a welcome distraction. I drank more.
As I worked, a strange warmth began to bloom deep inside me, where the eggs lay. It wasn’t the healing magic. It was a slow, relentless expansion. The first real cramp hit as I was whisking the eggs in a bowl—a deep, internal squeeze that stole my breath. I dropped the whisk, clutching the counter’s edge.
“Problem?” Marius asked, his tone mild.
“They’re… growing,” I breathed, horror dawning.
“Nesting,” he corrected, taking another sip. “They’re absorbing ambient energy. Your distress is quite a feast for them.”
Another cramp, stronger. I gasped, my knuckles white on the granite. The eggs were definitely larger, the pressure intensifying, filling more space. My belly tightened further, the skin feeling perilously thin. I poured the mixture into the hot skillet, my movements becoming more labored, more drunk, the world tilting on two axes: the alcohol and the unbearable fullness.
By the time I slid the cheesy scramble onto two plates, I was drunk and swaying. My stomach was monstrous, a huge, low-slung globe that strained the silk of the borrowed shirt. The eggs inside had quadrupled in size. They felt like bowling balls, lodged deep, leaving no room for my lungs. I had to breathe in short, sharp pants.
I waddled the plates to the island, setting one before him with a clatter. I lowered myself onto the stool opposite, the movement a careful, agonizing negotiation with gravity.
We ate in silence broken only by my hitched breathing. Each bite I managed to swallow felt like it had nowhere to go. The food sat in my esophagus, pressurizing the system. The cramps were coming at regular intervals now, a deep, rhythmic clenching that made me stop my fork mid-air, my eyes squeezing shut.
“Good,” Marius said, finishing his meal, watching me over the rim of his glass. He was drunk too, a loose, relaxed set to his shoulders, a glint in his icy eyes.
A particularly powerful contraction seized me. I dropped my fork with a clang, my hands flying to the sides of my massive stomach. A low, involuntary groan tore from my throat. It wasn’t just pressure anymore. It was a tightening, a pushing sensation, an undeniable and terrifying rhythm.
“Ah,” Marius said, a slow smile spreading across his face. He finished his drink. “Right on time.”
“Right on time.”
The contraction didn’t just squeeze; it crushed. A vise of molten lead cinched around my lower spine and radiated through my distended abdomen. Ihips bucked off the stool. A wet, guttural sound punched from my lungs. My vision swam, the pristine kitchen tilting on its axis. I clutched my stomach, fingers sinking into the terrifying, rock-hard curve. The eggs inside felt like they were grinding together, expanding, seeking an exit that didn’t exist.
Marius stood, rounding the island with a predator’s loose grace. He stopped behind me, his hands settling on my trembling shoulders. “Breathe through it,” he said, his voice a mockery of coaching calm. “That’s just the warm-up.”
The pain crested, held me suspended in a white-hot void for an eternity, then reluctantly ebbed. I slumped forward, forehead pressed to the cool granite, panting. Sweat dripped from my brow onto the stone. The sound in my cock throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that somehow amplified the hollow, agonizing fullness in my gut. My own need was a distant, frantic buzz beneath the overwhelming reality of my body being invaded from the inside out.
“Clean up,” Marius said, his fingers trailing through my damp hair before pulling away. “I dislike a messy kitchen.”
Another contraction was building already, a deep, gathering tide of pressure. I pushed myself upright, my arms shaking. The plates. The skillet. The empty glass. Each item seemed miles away. I waddled to the sink, my gait a wide, unsteady shuffle. Every step jostled the colossal weight in my belly. A fresh cramp, sharp and low, tightened its grip.
I bent over to place a plate in the dishwasher.
Big mistake.
The shift in posture sent the eggs plunging forward with a sickening, heavy lurch. A cry ripped from my throat. The contraction that had been building slammed into me full force, doubling me over. My knees hit the floor. The sound was a sharp clatter as the plate shattered on the tile. I barely registered it. I was clawing at my stomach, my mouth open in a silent scream as the pain, outrageously, transformed.
My incubus physiology, twisted and desperate, reacted. The searing, tearing pressure didn’t just hurt. It ignited. A wave of blistering, shameful pleasure erupted from my core, heat flooding my veins, centering on my denied, imprisoned cock. I came without orgasm, a devastating, dry convulsion that left me shuddering and sobbing. The sound in my urethra felt like a live wire.
From above, I heard a soft, delighted chuckle. “Fascinating.” Marius’s polished shoes came into my blurred vision. “The pain rewires itself into ecstasy. Your kind really is a masterpiece of masochism.”
He left me there, kneeling amidst the porcelain shards, as he walked to his study. I heard the rustle of paper. “The mail needs collecting from the lobby desk,” he called out, his voice casual. “Be a dear.”
The contraction eased, leaving me hollow and trembling, drenched in a cold sweat that smelled of fear and hopeless arousal. I used the cabinet door to haul myself upright, every muscle protesting. I didn’t look at the broken plate. I just shuffled toward the penthouse door, one hand braced under the monstrous shelf of my belly, the other groping along the wall for support.
The hallway to the private elevator was an endless, glossy tunnel. Another cramp hit halfway, a deep, rolling pang that stole my breath. I staggered, my legs liquefying. My shoulder hit the wall, and I slumped against it, pressing my cheek to the cool surface. A long, low groan vibrated through me. Pleasure-pain lightning forked up my spine. My cock jumped, trapped and angry, against my thigh.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. The descent was its own special hell. The drop in altitude made everything inside me sink lower, increase the pressure tenfold. I was panting, short, sharp breaths, by the time the doors opened onto the marbled lobby.
The concierge, a human whose eyes briefly widened before snapping into professional neutrality, gestured to a small stack of envelopes on the desk. “Mr. Volkov’s correspondence.”
“Thanks,” I managed, the word a strained gasp.
As I reached for them, the next contraction gripped me. It was the strongest yet, a tidal wave of internal compression. My legs gave out completely. I caught myself on the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, my entire body bowing forward over the massive swell of my stomach. A choked, whimpering sound escaped me. The pleasure this time was tyrannical, a scalding rush that blurred my vision and made my knees threaten to buckle further. I could feel the eggs, huge and heated, pressing urgently downward.
“Sir? Are you—?” the concierge began, voice taut with alarm.
“Fine,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”
I snatched the mail, clutching it to my chest like a shield, and turned back toward the elevator. The walk back was a nightmarish pilgrimage. Each contraction came quicker, lasted longer. I was moaning constantly now, a soft, broken soundtrack to my shuffling steps. The doors closed on the sight of the concierge’s deeply concerned face.
Alone in the ascending box, I surrendered. I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, my legs splayed. The mail scattered around me. I gripped my belly with both hands, feeling it tighten and harden into a grotesque, giant stone. “Oh, god, oh fuck,” I chanted, rocking slightly. The sound in my cock felt like it was vibrating with my pulse. I was so hard it was a separate agony, a demand my body was too overwhelmed to meet.
The elevator opened into the penthouse. Marius was waiting, leaning against the foyer table, a fresh drink in hand. He looked me over, a slow smile touching his lips. “You made a mess.”
I couldn’t answer. Another peak was cresting. I writhed on the floor of the elevator, a guttural, animal noise tearing from my throat. My hips jerked involuntarily, fucking the air. The pleasure was a punishment, exquisite and annihilating.
When it passed, I was a panting, sweaty wreck. I crawled out of the elevator on my hands and knees, the envelopes forgotten. Marius stepped over me, his shoe nudging my ribcage. “The living room needs dusting. The artifacts don’t clean themselves.”
The absurdity was a slap. I stared at the geometric patterns of the priceless rug beneath my fingers. Slowly, using the furniture as a crutch, I pulled myself upright. My stomach was a pendulum, pulling me forward. I found a microfiber cloth in a cabinet. The first shelf was at waist level. Impossible. I had to turn sideways, my huge belly brushing the bookshelves, to reach it with a shaking hand.
A contraction rammed into me without warning. My whole body locked. The cloth fell. I grabbed the edge of a limestone sculpture, my grip slippery, holding on as the world dissolved into sensation. This wave crested higher, the pleasurable component so intense it felt like my nerves were being bathed in fire. A raw, screaming sob of pure overwhelm broke from me. My cock twitched, a pathetic, desperate pulse against the cruel silicone obstruction.
Marius was seated on the sofa now, watching. He had unbuttoned his trousers, freed his cock. It lay thick and heavy against his thigh. He stroked it lazily, his eyes never leaving me. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said. “The dust is still there.”
Tears of frustration, of overstimulation, of sheer incomprehensible need, streamed down my face. The contraction ebbed, leaving me breathless and empty. I looked from the dust cloth on the floor to him, to his hand moving slowly on his own flesh. A different, wild desperation took hold.
I didn’t pick up the cloth. I shuffled toward him, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I sank to my knees before him, the effort making me winded. The enormous mound of my stomach rested between his spread legs, a absurd, physical barrier.
“Please,” I rasped, the word filthy and raw. I didn’t know what I was asking for.
“Please what?” He didn’t stop stroking himself.
I leaned in, my tongue darting out to lick a wet stripe up the underside of his shaft. The taste of him, salt and skin and power, exploded on my tongue. Another contraction began to build, a deep, ominous rumble in my core, but I ignored it. I took the head of his cock into my mouth, sucking gently, my eyes squeezed shut against the twin onslaughts—the one in my belly and the one in my mouth.
He let me work for a minute, my movements growing more frantic as the internal pressure mounted. Then his hand fisted in my hair, stilling me. “Is that all you’ve got?” he chided softly. “You’re distracted.”
The contraction peaked. I gasped around his cock, my body seizing. Pleasure detonated, short-circuiting my thoughts. I sucked him harder, desperately, trying to anchor myself in his sensation, to escape the riot happening in my own body.
He pulled my head back by the hair. “I want to watch you,” he murmured, his eyes dark pits of appetite. “I want to see your face while you feel them move. Put your hands on your stomach. Show me.”
Whimpering, I obeyed. I placed my trembling hands on the huge, tight curve. Another rolling cramp began, visibly hardening my belly under my palms. My mouth fell open in a silent cry as it built, and built, and then the transformative pleasure-fire burned through me. I thrashed my head, a line of saliva connecting my lips to the tip of his cock.
“Good,” he whispered, his own breath hitching. He guided himself back to my lips. “Now suck. Clean me up while you… labor.”
The grotesque poetry of it shattered me. I took him deep, swallowing him down, as another wave of pain-pleasure wracked my frame. I was moaning around him, vibrating his flesh with my torment. He fucked my mouth in shallow, cruel thrusts, matching the rhythm of my contractions. I was a vessel for two impossible, violating rhythms—his and the eggs’—and my world narrowed to the points of agonizing, ecstatic connection: my mouth, my gut, my trapped, weeping cock. I served, and I strained, completely his, as the internal storm tore me apart and put me back together again and again.