Chapter 14: Ruin Me
A week later, the kitchen smelled of lemon cleaner and regret.
Elliot watched Luna from the doorway of the living room. She was curled on his sofa, knees to her chest, scrolling through her phone. The neon glow from a gaming poster reflected in her glasses. She’d been quiet. Not unfriendly, just… distant. Like she was buffering.
Their sex since that morning on the island had been different. Careful. Almost polite. He’d touch her and she’d respond, but her mind seemed elsewhere, her usual fierce participation replaced by a passive acceptance that felt like a rejection. The memory of her wild, wanton cries against the marble had begun to curdle in his gut, replaced by the silence of his sheets. He’d replayed everything a thousand times. Had he hurt her? Had the animal he’d unleashed disgusted her once the fever broke?
He couldn’t stand it.
“Did I do something wrong?” The question left him in a rush, louder than he intended, cutting through the low hum of his PC.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“That night. And the morning.” He gestured vaguely, helplessly, towards the kitchen. “You’ve been… quiet. And when we… it doesn’t seem like you’re… there.”
Luna set her phone down slowly. She pulled her glasses off, pinching the bridge of her nose. For a long moment, she just looked at the floor, a conflict playing out on her face. The online persona was completely gone. In its place was just a tired, uncertain girl in an oversized hoodie.
“It’s not you,” she said finally, her voice small. “It’s me. It’s… in my head.”
“What’s in your head?”
A shaky breath escaped her. She looked up, and her eyes were wide, almost frightened. “You. On top of me. Your hand… around my throat. The way you…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a deep, genuine pink. “I can’t stop thinking about it, Elliot. It’s like a loop. You pounding into me while you choked me. I can’t get it out of my head.”
The confession hung in the air, fragile and explosive. Elliot’s mind went blank. This wasn’t the answer he’d braced for.
“I thought you hated it,” he managed, his voice rough.
“Hated it?” A weak, incredulous laugh bubbled out of her. “I loved it. I’ve never… felt anything like that. It was like you flipped a switch in me I didn’t know existed.” She hugged her knees tighter. “And that freaks me the fuck out. Because what does that say about me? The online chick who gets off on being…”
“Owned,” he finished quietly. The word felt dangerous, but right.
She nodded, pressing her forehead to her knees. “Yeah. And now every time we’ve been together since, it’s been nice. It’s been sweet. And all I can think is ‘this isn’t it, this isn’t what I need,’ and I feel like a monster for wanting the other thing. So I check out. It’s not you. It’s me wanting… more of that.”
Elliot crossed the room and sat on the coffee table in front of her, forcing her to look at him. The programmer in him kicked in, parsing the data. The problem wasn’t damage; it was desire. A specific, terrifying, mutual desire.
“Okay,” he said, his mind clearing, focusing. “What does ‘more of that’ mean, Luna? Be specific.”
She chewed her lip, her gaze darting over his face, searching for judgment. Finding none, she took another breath. “The choking. But, like, you did it. Just pressure. Not cutting off air, just… the feeling. The rough handling. Pinning me down. Pulling my hair. Biting. Not enough to break skin, just… marks. And,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “slapping my ass. A bit. Not, like, a beating. Just… when you’re in the moment. To wake me up.”
He listened, cataloging each point. A map of her needs was being drawn, and he was memorizing every contour. “And what’s off limits?”
“My face,” she said immediately. “No hitting my face. No… degrading names, really. Nothing actually dangerous with the choking. No permanent marks. Nothing in public. And if I say ‘stop,’ or ‘red,’ everything stops. Immediately. No questions.”
“Green?” he asked.
A slow, real smile touched her lips. “Green means harder.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the agreement settling between them. The tension in the room had shifted, coiling into something potent and charged. The sickly worry in Elliot’s stomach was gone, replaced by a focused, calm certainty. He understood the rules. He could work within a framework.
He stood up. He looked down at her, curled small on his couch, having just handed him the keys to her darkest, most secret lock. The responsibility of it was immense. The thrill of it was brighter than any neon sign in his room.
His voice changed. It wasn’t louder, but it was layered with an authority that made her breath catch. It was the voice from the kitchen island.
“Go to my bedroom. Now. On the bed. On your knees, facing the headboard.”
Luna’s eyes widened. A full-body shiver went through her, visible even under the hoodie. For a second, she didn’t move, as if testing the reality of the command. Then, wordlessly, she uncurled herself. She stood, avoiding his eyes, and walked past him. He watched her go, the sway of her hips under the soft fabric, the way her steps slowed as she reached the hallway, almost hesitant.
He gave her a thirty-second head start. He needed the moment to breathe, to center himself, to become the man who could give her what she asked for without losing himself in it. He picked up a half-finished board game piece from the sofa—a tiny wooden spaceship—and turned it over in his palm, feeling its edges.
Then he followed her.
His bedroom was washed in late afternoon light, the stripes from the blinds painting the rumpled sheets. She was there, on her knees in the center of the bed, her back to him, shoulders tense. The framed photo of him and his dad watched from the bookshelf.
He closed the door. The click of the latch was definitive.
“The hoodie,” he said. “Take it off.”
Her hands went to the hem, pulling it up and over her head in one motion. It left her in just a simple cotton bra, the line of her spine pale and vulnerable.
“Good.” He approached the bed, his movements deliberate. He placed a knee on the mattress, the dip making her sway slightly. He didn’t touch her yet. He leaned close, his lips beside her ear, and smelled the lavender from his shampoo in her hair. “You use your safe word if you need to. You tell me green if you want more. This is for you. Do you understand?”
A slight, jerky nod.
“Say it.”
“I understand.” Her voice was a thread of sound.
His hand came up, not to caress, but to fist firmly in the pink hair at the nape of her neck. He didn’t yank, but the hold was unbreakable, tilting her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat. He felt the tremor that ran through her. Not fear. Anticipation.
“Then let’s get it out of your head,” he whispered.
His fingers, which had fisted so gently in her hair, now moved to the clasp of her bra with a quiet efficiency. The click of the hooks coming undone was louder than a gunshot in the sun-striped silence. He peeled the cotton away, letting it fall forward onto the rumpled sheets, leaving her naked from the waist up.
The afternoon light gilded her skin. He shifted behind her, his chest against her back, and his hands came around to cup her bare breasts. His palms were warm, slightly rough from coding and cooking, and he squeezed, not gently, learning their weight. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, back and forth until they tightened into hard peaks against his calloused skin.
He bent his head, his mouth finding the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He kissed the fluttering pulse there, then nipped. Not a love bite, but a sharp, precise punctuation of teeth that made her gasp and push her hips back into him.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her skin, one hand leaving her breast to snake around her waist, holding her firmly in place as his other continued to tease and roll her nipple. He dragged his lips along the slope of her shoulder, biting again, leaving a faint pink bloom. “All that noise in your head. Let me quiet it.”
“Please,” she breathed, the word barely audible. Then, her voice dropped, lower and filthier than he’d ever heard, raw and unfiltered. “Your hands feel so good. Want your marks all over me. Want everyone to know who fucking wrecked me.”
The words, this submissive, wanton litany from the girl who taunted him over coffee, sent a jolt of pure lightning down his spine. He growled, biting a little harder where her neck met her shoulder, a promise of a bruise. He released her abruptly and moved off the bed.
The loss of his heat was a shock. Luna froze, her mind stuttering. The headboard was right there, her hands still obediently at her sides. Had she gone too far? Said something wrong? The old, ingrained insecurity surged, telling her she’d broken the spell, shown too much of the hungry, desperate thing inside her. She started to turn, her hands beginning to lift from the mattress.
A sharp, open-handed slap landed on the curve of her ass.
The sound cracked through the room. The sting was immediate, bright and shocking, followed by a deep, spreading heat that pooled straight between her legs. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound.
“Did I say you could move?” His voice was calm, flat. It wasn’t a question.
“N-no.” She forced her hands back down, pressing her palms flat to the sheets. The sting echoed, a perfect, clarifying pain. She didn’t turn.
“Good.” She heard the soft sound of a drawer opening, the rustle of fabric. He returned to the edge of the bed. In his hands was a scarf, silky and deep violet, one she’d left draped over his gaming chair days ago. He held it up in front of her, letting the fabric glimmer in the light. “Look at this.”
She focused on it, her breath coming in quick little pants.
“This is a tool,” he said, his voice low and utterly serious. “It goes around your neck. It will pull. It will tighten. Your airway will not be compromised. My hand will be here, on your pulse, the entire time.” He shifted the scarf so she could see his other hand, his fingers positioned to monitor the steady beat under her jaw. “Do you understand the difference?”
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Yes.”
“Your word, Luna. Are you sure?”
She looked from the violet silk to his eyes, which were dark and focused entirely on her. There was no cruelty there, only a terrifying, absolute awareness. This was the man from the kitchen island, but honed, perfected. He had built a frame for her chaos. She let out a shuddering breath, and her voice was clear.
“Green.”
He nodded once. He looped the scarf around her throat. The silk was cool, a shocking contrast to her heated skin. He crossed the ends behind her neck, not in a knot, but in a firm, adjustable pull. He let the loose ends drape down her back, his hands returning to her hips to anchor her.
The pressure was nothing at first, just a presence. Then he took up the slack. The silk tightened in a smooth, firm line, a constant, encompassing pressure that sealed his dominance around her. It didn’t hurt. It claimed. Her world narrowed to the feel of it, to his hands on her hips, to the golden light and the phantom sting on her ass. Every frantic, insecure thought dissolved, quieted under that deliberate, consenting pressure.
He leaned close, his lips by her ear, his voice a rough vibration she felt through the scarf. “Now,” he whispered. “Let’s see how quiet you can really get.”
He started pulling on the scarf.
The pressure was a gradual crescendo, a silent metronome syncing with her heartbeat. He’d tighten the silk, hold it for a breath that felt endless, then release a fraction. Tighten. Hold. Release. It wasn’t about restriction; it was about presence. A relentless, tactile reminder that he was there, controlling the very air around her throat, and she had chosen this. Each pull carved a deeper quiet inside her skull, until all that remained was the sound of her own blood and the soft rustle of fabric.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice the only anchor in the narrowing world. Her chest rose and fell, obeying him.
His other hand, which had been resting on her hip, slid around. His fingertips traced the waistband of her underwear, a ghost of a touch over the damp cotton. He didn’t push beneath immediately. He palmed her through the fabric, a heavy, warm weight that made her hips jerk forward involuntarily. A low sound escaped her, part frustration, part need.
“Shhh,” he whispered, the scarf tightening briefly in warning. She stilled, her whole body thrumming.
Then his fingers finally slipped beneath the elastic. He didn’t go for her core. He traced the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the crease of her hip, maddeningly slow. His touch was clinical and cherishing all at once, mapping her. When his fingertips finally brushed through her folds, she let out a shattered groan. She was already slick, embarrassingly so, and the casual discovery of it by his clever, calloused fingers made her face burn.
“Christ, Luna,” he breathed, the clinical mask slipping for just a second into pure, male awe.
He teased her, then. A slow, circling pass over her clit that made her thighs tremble. A retreat. A shallow, promising dip inside that withdrew before she could clench around him. It was exquisite torture. The dual sensations—the claiming pressure at her throat and the maddening, fleeting pleasure between her legs—built a feedback loop of pure sensation. Her mind was utterly blank. White noise. Perfection.
“Elliot, please,” she begged, the words slurred and thick. “More. Please, I need more.”
He didn’t answer with words.
He pulled hard on the scarf. The world flared, a brilliant burst of sensation that locked her muscles and stole her vision. In the same instant, as her body arched against the constriction, he pushed two fingers deep inside her, curling them up in a claiming, perfect stroke.
It was like lightning.
A raw, blinding current of pleasure detonated from her core, radiating out to every nerve ending. The shocking pressure on her neck, the sudden, deep fullness—they fused into a single, overwhelming truth. A whimpering gasp of pleasure was torn from her, a sound so broken and grateful it didn’t seem like her own.
This. This was the best feeling she’d ever had. It wasn’t just the physical sensation, brutal and perfect as it was. It was the safety of the framework he’d built. It was the trust that let her break apart. It was him, Elliot, the shy coder from a cluttered kitchen, giving her this.
“It’s you,” she sobbed, her body clenching rhythmically around his fingers as the aftershocks rolled through her. “Only you. This is… God, Elliot.” She turned her head, as much as the scarf would allow, her cheek pressed against the rumpled sheet. Her voice dropped to a raw, ragged whisper, drenched in awe and surrender. “Use me. However you want. I’m yours. Just use me.”
He obliged.
A soft, relentless pull on the scarf tilted her head back further, baring her throat to his teeth. The pressure was a constant, thrilling counterpoint as his fingers moved inside her, a firm, curling rhythm that made her breath stutter. He nipped at the tendon running down her neck, not hard enough to bruise yet, but with a promise of tomorrow’s mark.
“Just like that,” she moaned, the words melting into a gasp as his thumb found her clit. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop. It’s so good.” Her hips rocked back against his hand, meeting every stroke with a desperate urgency. The quiet, analytical boy from the kitchen was gone. In his place was this—a force of pure sensation, methodically dismantling her. “Feels like you’re rewriting my code. Fuck. Yes.”
His breath was hot against her ear. “Louder.”
He pulled the scarf tighter for a second, a brilliant flare of white behind her eyelids, and crooked his fingers just so. Her back arched violently, a broken cry tearing from her lips. The orgasm that ripped through her was less a wave and more a sudden, total systems crash. It left her trembling, weightless, mind blissfully blank.
But his fingers didn’t stop. They gentled, but didn’t withdraw, coaxing her through the oversensitive aftershocks until she was whimpering, a hollowed-out shell of need. The words spilled from her then, unfiltered and raw, her voice slurry with pleasure.
“More, please, I need it… use me up. However you want. Just… don’t let me think.” She panted, her forehead damp against the sheets. The confession was guttural, stripped of all pretense. “Make it so I can’t remember my own name.”
She didn’t realize she’d said it until the word hung in the air, foreign and terrifying. It slipped out in a breathy, ragged sigh as his teeth grazed a fresh spot on her shoulder. “Please, Daddy…”
The rhythm of his fingers stuttered. Just for a beat.
The silence that followed was profound, thicker than the scarf around her neck. Her own heartbeat throbbed in her ears. Mortification, hot and sudden, flooded her veins. She’d broken the spell. She’d crossed some invisible, unspeakable line.
“Shit,” she whispered, the word cracking. “Elliot, I’m–”
“Green,” he interrupted, his voice a low, rough rasp against her skin. It wasn’t a question. It was an answer.
He pulled the scarf taut again, not in punishment, but in reclamation. His other hand withdrew from her underwear, and she heard the faint sound of his zipper. The world narrowed to the pressure on her throat and the solid, heated press of him against her.
“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice stripped bare.
All the fear dissolved. The word wasn’t a title; it was a key. It was surrender. It was the final, honest shape of the need he alone could fill.
“Daddy,” she breathed, the syllable a prayer.
The word was a door swinging open into a darker, hotter room. Elliot’s breath caught. Then his hands moved.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her cotton underwear. The fabric, already damp, stretched for a second before giving way with a soft, definitive tear. He ripped them down her thighs and off, tossing the ruined garment in a pale arc over his shoulder. It landed somewhere near the closet, a discarded flag.
His palm smoothed over the exposed curve of her ass, then slid between her legs from behind. He coated his fingers in her, spreading her slickness, and brought his wet fingertips up to brush her parted lips.
“Taste it,” he commanded, his voice gravel. “Taste how wet you are for me.”
She did, her tongue darting out to clean his fingers, the act itself a submissive plunge that made her whimper. The taste was salty, musky, utterly her. His.
He guided her down onto her hands and knees. The old mattress dipped under her palms. The violet scarf still hung, loose now, around her throat. He arranged her, his touch purposeful, adjusting the angle of her hips until her back curved into a deep, vulnerable arch. The afternoon light painted a stripe directly across her ass, highlighting the faint pink blush from his earlier slap.
“Please,” she whispered into the sheets, pushing her hips back in a silent, desperate invitation. Her voice was shattered glass. “Daddy, use me. However you want. Just use me.”
He positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other gathering the loose ends of the scarf. The broad, hot head of him pressed against her, a blunt, teasing promise. He rubbed himself through her slickness, coating himself in her, not entering, just painting her with the evidence of her own need. She shuddered, a full-body convulsion of anticipation.
“Now,” she begged, her fists clenching in the duvet. “Now, please, I’m ready, I’m–”
A sharp, digital chirp sliced through the room. It was her phone, buzzing and spinning a quarter-turn on his nightstand. The screen lit up, casting a blue glow on the comic books. The caller ID flashed: MARK - MANAGER.
Luna flinched. The real world, with its schedules and obligations, crashed into the sun-striped sanctuary. Her body went rigid.
Elliot didn’t stop. He kept that slow, maddening glide against her. He leaned over her back, his lips at her ear. His voice was calm, utterly unreasonable. “Answer it.”
“What?” Her head twisted, trying to see him. “Elliot, I can’t–”
“You can.” He pulled the scarf taut, not enough to choke, but enough to silence her protest. The pressure focused her. “You’re on your knees. You have the scarf. You answer it. Put it on speaker.”
The phone buzzed again, a frantic, mechanical insect. It was the fifth call this week. Pre-orders for the new branded merch were lagging. Her mind, hazy with want, supplied the details automatically, hatefully.
With a trembling hand, she reached out. Her fingers fumbled, nearly knocking the phone to the floor before she grabbed it. She swiped to answer and hit speaker, dropping the device onto the rumpled sheets in front of her knees.
“Luna? Christ, finally.” Mark’s voice was tinny and strained, pouring into the room. “The mock-ups from the printer are fucking magenta, not crimson. It’s a disaster. I need you to look at the PDFs right now and call them before five.”
Elliot’s hand tightened in the scarf. He pulled, a steady, insistent draw that arched her back further, pushing her chest toward the mattress. His other hand stayed on his hip, guiding himself, the tip of him just pressing, breaching the very edge of her.
“I–” Luna’s voice was strangled, breathy. She cleared her throat, fighting for composure. “I’m… I’m kind of in the middle of something, Mark.”
“Aren’t we all? It’ll take two minutes. Just pull it up on your laptop.”
Elliot pushed in.
Just an inch. A slow, burning, impossible invasion that stole the air from her lungs. A ragged, high-pitched moan escaped her, echoing perfectly in the quiet room and funneling directly into the phone’s microphone.
The line was silent for a beat.
“Luna? What was that? Are you okay?”
Elliot withdrew almost completely, then pushed that inch again, a brutal, teasing piston. Her knuckles were white on the sheets. She bit down on her own forearm to stifle the next sound, but it came out anyway, a choked, wet gasp.
“I’m–” she panted, her vision swimming. Elliot’s hand slid from her hip around to her front, his fingers finding her clit and circling with ruthless precision. Her head dropped. “I’m busy.”
“You sound… weird. Is someone there with you?”
Elliot lost patience. He pulled hard on the scarf, and in the same moment, he drove into her, one deep, complete thrust that buried him to the hilt.
Her cry was unchecked, a loud, sharp sound of perfect fulfillment that ricocheted off the walls. It was a moan stripped of all performance, raw and real and echoed through the phone’s speaker.
“Holy shit, Luna!” Mark’s voice was stunned, then abruptly professional, embarrassed. “Are you–”
“Hang up,” Elliot growled into her ear, his voice thick with strain as he held himself deep, unmoving, letting her feel every inch. “Tell him why you’re busy.”
She was mindless, split open on him. The words fell from her lips, honest and obscene. “Mark… I gotta go. I’m… I’m busy getting pounded by my boyfriend.”
She tapped the screen blindly, ending the call. The room plunged into sudden, profound silence, broken only by their ragged breathing. She dropped her forehead onto the sheets, a laugh or a sob hiccupping in her chest.
Then he moved.
He started a ruthless, driving rhythm, each thrust snapping her forward. The hand on the scarf provided a counter-rhythm, pulling taut with every deep plunge. His other hand came down on her ass in a sharp, stinging slap that made her jolt and cry out.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice breaking with the effort of his control. “Tell me everything you feel.”
The words poured out of her, a filthy, unpracticed stream of consciousness. “I feel you so deep… feels like you’re in my stomach.” A hard slap made her gasp. “The scarf… it’s so tight when you push… it makes everything brighter.” He pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her. “I can feel you throbbing… God, Daddy, your cock is so perfect.” She was babbling, praising, describing the slick sounds, the burn of the stretch, the way her own pleasurable tears were wetting the sheets beneath her cheek. “Don’t stop, don’t ever stop, please, I need it harder, I need to feel it tomorrow–”
He gave her harder. He fucked her with a focused, punishing intensity that obliterated thought. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall. The comic books on the nightstand shivered. He used the scarf like a rein, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, the silk digging into the tender flesh of her throat. The slaps came regularly now, peppering her ass and the backs of her thighs with a hot, pink glow.
“Yours,” she chanted, a broken mantra. “I’m yours, Daddy, all yours, fuck, right there, I’m gonna–”
Her climax took her violently, a seismic rupture that clenched around him like a vice. She screamed into the mattress, her body bowing taut against the scarf’s pull. It triggered his. With a final, guttural groan, he slammed into her, held, and spilled. The heat of it, the intimate flood, sent another, smaller shock through her system.
He collapsed over her back, his weight pinning her to the bed. The scarf went slack. For a long time, the only sounds were their heaving lungs and the distant traffic seven stories below. The stripe of sunlight had crawled across the bed, now warming their tangled legs.
Slowly, carefully, he unwound the violet silk from her neck. He kissed the skin beneath it, a tender press against the red line it had left. He rolled off her, pulling her with him, gathering her shaking body against his chest. Her phone, dark and silent, lay forgotten on the rumpled sheets beside the framed convention photo.
She nuzzled into him, her lips against his sternum. The quiet was different now. Not empty, but full. Sated.
“So,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse and utterly spent. “Magenta’s a shit color for merch anyway.”
A laugh rumbled in his chest, surprised and deep. He kissed the top of her head. He didn’t speak. Words felt unnecessary. The proof of everything was in the heat between them, in the marks on her skin, in the defiant, hung-up phone. He just held her, as the golden light of afternoon deepened toward dusk, and for the first time, the silence in his own head was peaceful.