Chapter 25: The Weekend PT 3
The wet slap of skin against skin filled the humid air of Puck’s bedroom, punctuated by Ron’s ragged gasps and Puck’s high, keening cries. Her hips pistoned relentlessly, driving him deeper with each frantic bounce, her augmented breasts a heavy, mesmerizing blur above him. The tangled nest of blankets and handwritten notes beneath them crunched and shifted with every jarring thrust. Ron’s knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the leash handle, his other hand trapped beneath Puck’s surprisingly strong fingers pinning his wrist to the mattress.
He’s here he’s HERE inside me mine mine MINE— Puck’s internal scream was a fevered chant, drowning out the physical sensation that bordered on pain. Feel him stretching BREAKING me open YES Master BREAK your stupid needy pet—
Her rhythm hitched, became erratic. A guttural groan tore from her throat as her body clenched around him in a violent spasm. She collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked torso pressing heavily onto his chest, her forehead resting against his collarbone. Her breath came in hot, shuddering gusts against his skin. For a few seconds, the only sounds were their harsh breathing and the faint hum of the city filtering through the window.
Then, like a switch flipped, Puck pushed herself up. Her eyes, still dilated and wild, scanned the chaotic landscape of the bed. Her gaze snagged on a sheet of paper half-buried under her knee. She snatched it up, her movements quick and birdlike.
"Oh! Oh! Found it!" Her voice was suddenly bright, giddy, the manic cheer returning instantly, jarringly. She held the note aloft, waving it like a tiny flag. "See, Master? See?" She leaned closer, her damp raven hair brushing his cheek, the scent of sex and sandalwood incense thick around them. "This one says..." She traced the looping script with a fingertip, her grin widening impossibly. "...'fuck pet's face till she pukes'." She giggled, a high-pitched, unnerving sound. "Isn't that perfect? Right after round one? Cleanse the palate!"
Ron stared up at her, his mouth dry, his mind a numb void of terror. His cock, still slick and half-hard inside her, felt alien, trapped. Before he could form a word, a protest, a whimper, Puck scrambled off him with startling agility. The sudden loss of her weight and heat was almost as shocking as her presence.
She bounded, naked and gleaming with sweat, towards the corner of the room where a small, cluttered desk stood. Ron watched, paralyzed, as she rummaged through a stack of sketchbooks and discarded fabric swatches. Her movements were frantic, purposeful. She emerged triumphant, holding up a plain, stainless steel mixing bowl. The kind you’d use for baking.
"Ta-da!" she chirped, holding the bowl aloft. She skipped back towards the bed, the metal catching the dim light filtering through the window. "Pet prepared! Always prepared for Master!" She placed the bowl carefully on the rumpled blankets beside Ron’s hip. It looked absurdly domestic amidst the carnality.
She knelt beside him, her eyes burning with eager intensity. "Okay, Master," she breathed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper laced with anticipation. "Pet's ready. Do it. Fuck her stupid face." She leaned forward, her large breasts swaying, her lips parting slightly. "Make her gag. Make her choke. Make her puke." The last word was delivered with a fierce, almost reverent whisper. "Show pet she's just a hole. Your hole."
Ron felt bile rise in his own throat. The cold metal edge of the bowl pressed against his thigh. The crinkled note lay discarded near his shoulder, the looping script screaming its obscene command. Puck’s eyes, wide and expectant, held no trace of hesitation, only a terrifying, absolute trust in his compliance with her darkest desires.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The scent of their coupling hung thick in the air, mingling with the incense and the faint metallic tang of the bowl. Puck tilted her head, a flicker of impatience crossing her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing his limp hand still clutching the leash.
"Master?" she prompted, her voice soft but edged with steel. "Pet wrote the instructions. Pet brought the bowl." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to his groin, then back to his face. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. "Master knows what pet needs. What pet craves." She leaned closer still, her breath hot on his ear. "Break me, baby. Break me all the way down."
Her hand slid from his wrist to his hip, then lower, her fingers wrapping around him, coaxing him back to full hardness with practiced, insistent strokes. The sensation was overwhelming, a betrayal of his terror. He gasped, his body responding against his will.
"See?" Puck murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Master's body knows. Knows where it belongs." She guided him, positioning herself on her knees, her face hovering inches above the cold metal bowl. Her eyes locked onto his, dark pools of absolute submission and terrifying hunger. "Do it," she breathed, parting her lips wider, tilting her head back, exposing her throat. "Fuck your pet's face. Ruin it."
Ron looked from her waiting mouth to the gleaming bowl. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by Puck’s shallow, excited breaths and the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs. The leash slipped from his numb fingers, landing silently on the crumpled note beside him. The abyss wasn't just drowning him anymore; it was demanding he drown her too. And the bowl sat there, waiting, a stark, practical promise of the degradation to come. Puck’s expectant stillness was more terrifying than her frenzy. She was utterly, terrifyingly ready.