Chapter 18: Bad Choice
The pressure on Ron’s hand, pressed against Puck’s throat by her own terrifying strength, felt like a brand. Her pulse hammered against his palm, a frantic counterpoint to the icy dread pooling in his gut. Own it. Belongs. Serve. The words echoed, stripping him bare. He wanted to scream, to shove her away, to flee back to the sterile safety of his spreadsheets. But his limbs felt like lead, his breath trapped in his chest.
A choked sound escaped him, barely a whisper. "Puck..."
Then, a shift. Almost imperceptible. The vice-like grip on his hand loosened, just slightly. Her thumb stopped its maddening stroke. Her intense, dark eyes searched his face, not with anger now, but with a terrifying, expectant hunger. She saw it – the flicker of surrender beneath the terror, the exhaustion winning over resistance. The profound loneliness she’d pinpointed, suddenly a yawning chasm he couldn’t bear.
"Stay," she breathed, the command soft, intimate, yet leaving no room for argument. It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. Her gaze held his, unwavering, willing him to capitulate.
Ron swallowed hard. The air tasted thick with incense and desperation. He saw the faint tremor in her lower lip, the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes. It wasn’t just desire; it was a frantic need, a compulsion directed solely at him. The sheer, terrifying focus of it paralyzed him more effectively than any lock. His shoulders slumped, a silent collapse.
"Yes." The word was ash on his tongue.
A predatory gleam ignited in Puck’s eyes. Triumph. Possession confirmed. In one swift, fluid motion, she released his wrist and slid off the coffee table. Before Ron could process the sudden freedom, her hand shot out and clamped onto his forearm, nails digging in just enough to register.
"Good boy," she purred, the endearment chilling him.
She didn’t lead; she dragged. Ron stumbled after her, his legs uncooperative, through the cluttered living room labyrinth. Posters of snarling rock stars blurred past. The incense smell intensified as they passed the smoldering cone on a crowded bookshelf. The worn velvet of the living room couch gave way to the threshold of her bedroom.
It was a denser version of the chaos outside. Clothes piled on a vintage chair, sketchbooks spilling onto the floor, more band posters, a single dim lamp casting long, distorted shadows. The bed was unmade, layers of black and grey fabric tangled. Puck released his arm only to shove him backward. He landed hard on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning in protest.
She stood over him, silhouetted by the weak light, breathing heavily through parted lips. Her sheer top clung. Her eyes devoured him, stripping away the beige sweater, the careful accountant persona, leaving only the raw core of his frightened acquiescence.
"Down," she commanded, her voice a low thrum.
Ron obeyed, lowering himself onto his back, the scratchy blanket rough against his neck. He stared at the ceiling, a water stain resembling a Rorschach blot he couldn’t decipher. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor.
Then her weight settled over him, knees bracketing his hips. He flinched, eyes snapping back to her. She was straddling him, her dark hair falling around her face like a curtain. She leaned forward, her palms braced on the mattress on either side of his head, bringing her face inches from his. The overwhelming proximity, the heat radiating from her, the dark intensity in her eyes – it was suffocating.
"You want them bigger?" Her voice was a husky whisper. She shifted her weight slightly, letting her breasts, straining against the black lace of her bra, sway deliberately over his chest. They were impossibly large, unnaturally round, pressing against the fabric. "Smaller?" She dipped lower, letting the heavy weight graze his sternum through his thin shirt. Ron’s breath hitched. It wasn’t arousal, not purely; it was shock, disbelief, a horrified fascination. "Name it," she breathed, her lips brushing his ear, making him shudder. "I’d do it. Cut them open. Fill them more. Suck them out. Anything. For you. My owner needs his pet just right, doesn't he?"
Ron squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted the floor to swallow him. The clinical description of surgery, the casual violence of it, mixed with the dizzying proximity of her body, her scent – jasmine, sweat, something vaguely chemical – it overwhelmed his senses. "Just... stop talking," he choked out, turning his head away. It wasn't defiance; it was a plea for the assault to pause.
Puck chuckled, a low, dark sound vibrating against him. "Nonono, trust me you want this." She pushed herself upright, still straddling him, her gaze raking down his body with unnerving focus, settling on the growing, involuntary tightness in his trousers. A flicker of raw satisfaction crossed her face.
"Ahhh," she breathed, the sound dripping with dark pleasure. "There he is. There's my good boy." She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Her hands went to his belt buckle, fingers working with startling efficiency. Ron lay frozen, eyes wide, fixed on the water stain on the ceiling. He felt the cool air as his trousers and boxers were yanked down his hips. He couldn't look. Couldn't move.
Puck slid down his body, her bare thighs brushing his. Then she was there, crouched between his legs. She didn't look up at him. Her dark head lowered. Her tongue flicked out, a hot, wet stripe against his exposed flesh. Ron gasped, a ragged, involuntary sound.
Then she took him into her mouth.
It wasn't sensual. It wasn't slow. It was feral. A frantic, sloppy claiming. She used her tongue aggressively, swirling, pressing, her lips stretching wide. Her head bobbed with jerky, exaggerated movements. The sounds were obscene – wet, sucking noises, sharp intakes of breath through her nose that sounded more like frantic sniffs than arousal, punctuated by low, guttural moans she seemed to force from her throat. "Mmph... yes... yours... pet... good... ahh... Ronnie..." The words were mangled, barely intelligible around him, more animal whimpers than speech. Her hands gripped his hips, nails digging in, holding him down, anchoring him to the bed as she worked. Her eyes, when they flickered up to meet his for a split second, held a manic, almost deranged intensity. This wasn't pleasure; it was performance. A desperate, degrading display of ownership. The panting, the sloppiness, the wildness – it was calculated, a grotesque pantomime of the 'perfect pet' she believed he deserved.
Ron closed his eyes again, tighter this time. He felt suspended, dissociated. The sensations were undeniable, overwhelming – the heat, the wetness, the pressure. But they were drowned out by the horror of it all. The words echoing in his skull: Own it. Belongs. Serve. The chilling certainty in her eyes. The sickening realization that his single, terrified "Yes" had unlocked this. That he was here, pinned not just by her hands, but by his own profound, crushing emptiness, letting this happen. He felt the rising tide within him, a physical betrayal he couldn't stop, a wave of shame crashing towards a terrifying, inevitable shore.