Chapter 15: secret
The silence of the apartment at three AM was a thick, textured thing, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. Caitlyn lay perfectly still in her bed, the memory of Anxin’s hands on her in the shower two days prior a live wire under her skin. A low, aching heat had settled deep in her belly, a relentless pulse between her legs that her own fingers could never properly soothe.
She bit her lip, her hand sliding under the waistband of her silk shorts. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her thong, pulling the damp fabric aside. Her own touch was a poor imitation, a frantic circling that made her gasp into the dark. "Anxin," she panted, the name a forbidden whisper as she imagined it was his calloused thumb on her clit, his deep voice growling in her ear.
She was too lost in the building rhythm, the slick sounds of her own need, to hear her door sigh open. Anxin stood framed in the doorway, having lain awake listening to every stifled gasp from his room next door. He watched her, his eyes dark in the shadowed hall, the sheet pooling at her waist, her back arched. He moved silently across the worn carpet.
"You call for me?" His voice, low and rough with sleep, cut through the room. Caitlyn froze, her fingers stilling, a choked sound of pure shock escaping her throat. She yanked her hand free, scrambling to pull the sheet over herself, her face flooding with heat. Anxin didn’t smile, not quite, but his mouth quirked as he reached the edge of her bed. "Sounded like you needed something only I can give you." He placed a firm hand on her ankle beneath the sheet, his grip possessive. "Don’t stop on my account, princess. Show me how you think of me."
He was in awe watching her try to please herself thinking of him, her hips making shallow, frustrated lifts into her own hand, unable to reach the climax she needed because it just wasn’t him. The pathetic, beautiful struggle of it clenched something raw in his chest. He knelt down next to her, the old floorboard creaking under his weight, and his hand—large and warm—slid from her ankle up the taut line of her calf.
The contact of his hands on her body made her gasp, a sharp, startled inhalation that seemed to stop her heart. “Your fingers won’t reach, won’t they?” he murmured, his palm skating higher to caress the slim figure of her thigh beneath the thin sheet. She whined then, a high, needy sound, her head thrashing against the pillow. “I can’t—it’s not enough, I need you, please, I need your hands, your dick, anything, just not this.” Her confession was humid and broken, the desperation so complete it vibrated in the air between them.
He wanted to see her struggle a moment longer, to let that exquisite frustration burn her up from the inside. “My greedy girl,” he said, his voice a living, condescending thing that washed over her, simultaneously praise and degradation. His fingers found the soaked heat she’d been abusing, but he didn’t stroke her; he just pressed the heel of his hand hard against her entire aching cunt, making her back arch off the mattress. “This wetness is all for me? This fucking mess?” She nodded wildly, her words dissolving into sobs. “Then beg properly.”
"Please," she gasped, the word torn from some raw, untethered place inside her. "Please, Anxin, use your fingers, your mouth, your dick—just touch me the way you did in the shower." Her voice cracked, abandoning all pretense, all pride. "I can't think of anything but how you filled me up."
He rewarded her by slipping two thick fingers inside her, a brutal and perfect stretch that made her cry out. "This what you needed?" he growled, curling them against that sweet, spongy spot he'd memorized days ago. She sobbed a yes, her hips jerking to meet his ruthless rhythm, her own fingers digging into the sheets until the fabric threatened to rip.
"Then take it." He added a third finger, stretching her wide, fucking her with a steady, piston-like drive that mirrored exactly what she craved. "Come all over my hand, Caitlyn. Show me how fucking empty you were without me in this cunt."
He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening in the sliver of streetlight through her blinds. In one fluid motion he was on the bed, his knees caging her hips, his large hands pushing her thighs apart with an unforgiving pressure. He lowered his face to the damp, tangled curls, his breath a hot promise against her oversensitive flesh.
“Don’t you dare be quiet,” he warned, just before his tongue sliced through her folds with a flat, demanding stroke. The contact was electric, a direct current to her spine, and a shattered cry burst from her lips. Her hand flew to her mouth, palm pressing hard against the sound, her eyes wide with panic towards the thin wall separating her room from Hao’s.
Anxin pulled back, his lips wet with her. He caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, peeling her hand away from her face. “No,” he stated, his voice a low vibration that felt it came from the center of the earth. “I need to hear every broken fucking noise this cunt makes for me.” He held her gaze, a challenge in his darkened eyes, before diving back down.
His tongue was relentless, a precise and brutal instrument that licked and probed and fucked her with an expertise that made her vision swim. He sucked her swollen clit into his mouth, applying a rhythmic, pulsing pressure that had her heels digging into the mattress, her back bowing. “Anxin, oh god, right there, please—” Her pleas were loud, unabashed, a chorus of gasped obscenities he drank in.
He pulled back, leaving her trembling and exposed on the soaked sheets. “My turn,” he rasped, and before she could process the loss of his mouth, he had rolled her onto her stomach. The worn cotton of the sheet scratched her cheek. He yanked her arms behind her back, crossing her wrists with a casual, practiced efficiency that stole her breath.
A cold, slick weight settled against her skin—his leather belt, looped once, then twice. The buckle clicked, a final, metallic sound in the dark room. He pulled the knot tight, the leather biting into her delicate bones, anchoring her completely to his will. “There,” he muttered, his hand smoothing over the small of her back, a grotesque parody of comfort.
He positioned her hips, angling them upward, leaving her utterly open. “This cunt remembers,” he said, his voice thick as he pressed the broad head against her dripping entrance. He didn’t push in, just let the pressure build, a silent torture that made her whimper into the sheet.
She was still so tight no matter how much he fucked her, her body clinging fiercely to that first inch as he finally surged forward. A ragged groan tore from his chest at the exquisite, suffocating heat. “Fuck, you clamp down on me like a virgin every single time,” he breathed, burying himself to the hilt in one long, relentless stroke.
He held there, fully seated, feeling her inner muscles flutter in shocked, rippling waves around his invasion. “You feel that?” he growled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making her gasp. “That’s mine.” His rhythm was a punishing claim, each thrust a raw, wet slap of skin. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she choked, the word muffled by the bedding, her world narrowed to the brutal fullness splitting her apart. “It’s all yours, Anxin, please.” He leaned over her bound form, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear. “I know.” His pace became erratic, a deep, grinding finality.
His hips stuttered, losing their rhythm as the pressure built at the base of his spine. "Gonna fuck my cum so deep into you," he grunted, the words slurred against her shoulder. His release was a blinding, hot rush that flooded her, pulse after thick pulse pumping into her clutching cunt.
A shudder wracked his entire frame as he emptied himself, his forehead pressing damply between her bound shoulder blades. He stayed buried inside her, both of them breathing in shattered, syncopated gasps. The air was heavy with salt and sex and the tannic scent of the leather biting into her wrists.He shifted then, slipping from her with a wet, intimate sound. He didn’t free her hands. Instead, he rolled her onto her back, the belt digging cruelly into her flesh as he maneuvered her limp body. He loomed over her, his eyes tracing the frantic pulse at the base
"You still look untouched," he murmured, his thumb brushing the unmarked skin of her neck. A possessive darkness flickered in his gaze. "That ends now."
He bent his head, his mouth hot and wet against her throat. His tongue lashed the frantically beating spot just above her collarbone, tasting salt and her perfume. Then his teeth scraped the sensitive skin, not teasing, but with a deliberate, testing pressure.
Caitlyn froze, a fresh tremor running through her. "Anxin—" His name was a breath, a question, a plea.
He answered by sinking his teeth into the tender flesh, a sharp, claiming pain that melted instantly into a deep, throbbing ache. He sucked hard, his mouth forming a violent seal, pulling the blood to the surface as a brutal testament. She cried out, a sharp sound that dissolved into a low, surrendering moan, her body arching up into the pain that felt like an anchor.
He held the suction for a long, punishing moment, the sound obscene in the quiet room. When he finally released her, he blew a cool stream of air over the ravaged skin, making her whimper. He surveyed his work: a livid, purple bruise already flowering against her paleness, a perfect, ugly brand.
"My mark," he stated, his voice gravel. He traced the blooming bruise with a rough fingertip, a artist satisfied with his canvas. "Now everyone will know what you are." He finally unbuckled the belt, the leather falling away, and brought her freed, trembling wrists to his lips, kissing the raw imprints left behind.
The kiss on her wrist was shockingly tender, a contrast that made her breath hitch. He leaned back, his eyes tracing the fresh bruise already purpling on her throat, a twin to the ache between her legs. "Still too clean," he murmured, almost to himself.
His hand slid into her hair, fisting it not to hurt, but to perfectly position her. He studied the pale, unmarked column of her neck as if deciding where to strike. Caitlyn held perfectly still, her pulse hammering against her skin where he looked.
Then he bent, and his mouth was hot and damp. He didn't nibble or tease. His teeth sank into the cord of muscle at the side of her neck with a deliberate, sustained pressure. A sharp, bright pain bloomed, making her gasp and stiffen.
He held the bite, his jaw tight, a low growl vibrating from his chest into her skin. The pain crested and then melted, transmuting into a deep, throbbing heat that spread through her veins. She went pliant against him, a soft, surrendering sound escaping her lips.
He sucked hard, pulling the blood to the surface, claiming the very tissue beneath. When he released, the sound was wet and obscene in the quiet room. He blew on the ravaged skin, the cool air a shock that made her shiver.
"Now you're marked," he said, his voice rough. He ran his thumb over the swollen, indented crescent of teeth marks, smearing a tiny bead of blood. "Every time you look in the mirror, you'll see who you belong to."
Her fingers came up, trembling, to touch the tender wound. She didn't look away from him. The sting was an anchor, a truth more solid than anything she'd ever known. "It'll bruise for a week," she whispered.
"Good." He caught her wandering fingers, brought them to his mouth, and licked the pad of her thumb, tasting the salt of her skin. "Let it." The possessive finality in that single syllable sealed the room around them.
He stared at the vivid bruise, his thumb tracing its edges, but his eyes were flat, unsatisfied. "It's not enough," he muttered, more to himself than to her. That deep, restless hunger she'd felt in the shower, the one that took him past mere fucking, was back, a cold pressure in the room.
He moved off the bed, the floorboards groaning under his weight as he retrieved the belt from the tangle of sheets. The leather was still warm. "On your knees at the foot of the bed," he said, his voice devoid of its earlier rough warmth. "Now, Caitlyn."
She obeyed, the new bruise on her neck throbbing in time with her heartbeat. The worn rug scratched her knees. She heard the soft, sinister whisper of the belt being folded in his hands, creating a thick, short strap.
He moved behind her, his shadow enveloping her. The first strike wasn't on her ass. The folded leather snapped sharp and sudden against the back of her naked thigh, a line of pure, bright fire. She jolted forward with a gasp, her hands slapping the mattress for balance.
"Stay up," he commanded. The next lash landed parallel to the first, a twin stripe of burning pain. "This cunt gets my cum, my marks, my bruises." A third strike, lower, right where thigh met cheek. "It takes everything I give it."
She was panting, tears of sheer sensation pricking her eyes, her skin alive and singing. "But I want its sounds." He dropped the belt. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the fresh welts, and she cried out at the hot sting. He nudged her legs wider with his knee, the head of his cock, already hard again, probing her soaked entrance from behind.
He didn't enter her. He rubbed himself through her slick folds, a taunting, slippery promise. "You screamed when you came for me in the shower," he recalled, his voice a low grind in her ear. "I want that sound again. I want you so fucking loud the neighbors call the cops." He pushed just the tip inside, a brutal tease, stretching her rim. "Give me that scream, or I stop. And I'll leave you just like this, aching and empty."
The threat echoed in the silence he left behind, a vacuum of sound that made the ache between her legs feel like a physical void. She tried to form the scream, but it caught in her throat, a dry, panicked hitch. His cock head, a slick, insistent pressure at her entrance, remained utterly still.
“I… I can’t,” she whispered, the shame hot in her voice.
He withdrew completely, the loss of contact a colder, more profound punishment than the belt. “Then we’re done.” The bed shifted as his weight left it.
A raw, animal sound of protest tore from her then, fueled by a deeper desperation than pride. “Wait!” It was a ragged shout. He paused. She forced her lungs to fill, thinking of his teeth on her neck, his cum inside her, the overwhelming rightness of his possession. The scream that burst out was torn from her core, loud and ragged and real, shredding the quiet of the night.
It was all the permission he needed. He drove into her with a force that stole her breath, his hips meeting the burning welts on her ass. “Again,” he grunted, each brutal thrust punctuating the command. She screamed into the mattress, the sound muffled by cotton, each cry punched out of her by his relentless pace.
He fucked her with a focused, driving rhythm, one hand fisting in that madness of skin and need, he bent over her, his mouth finding the untouched slope of her shoulder. He bit down, not with the branding pressure of before, but with a sharp, sudden viciousness, his teeth breaking the skin in a bright, shocking flare of pain. She screamed anew, the sound raw and true, as the coppery taste of her blood filled his mouth.
He lapped at the broken skin, the metallic tang mingling with her sweat. "Mine," he growled, the word gritty against her damp flesh. His hands slid down her back, palming the fresh welts from the belt.
She shuddered, each breath a ragged intake that sounded like sobbing. "You taste like rust and need," he muttered, shifting his weight. He pulled out of her cunt, the sudden emptiness making her whimper.
"Turn over." She complied, her movements sluggish, her body a map of his violence. The mattress sighed as he knelt between her splayed legs.
His eyes fixed on the smooth skin of her inner thighs, already trembling. "This is where you'll carry me," he said, his voice low and deliberate. He bent forward, his mouth hot and wet against her thigh.
His teeth weren't gentle; they scraped then sank in with a purposeful cruelty. She cried out, a sharp, truncated sound that died in her throat. He sucked hard, painting a brutal purple blossom into her flesh.
The pain was a bright, anchoring flare that spread like liquor in her veins. He repeated the process on the other thigh, his bite deeper, more possessive. "Now everyone sees," he breathed against the new bruise, his tongue soothing the sting.
Her thighs burned, each mark a brand that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. He looked at his work, his expression a mix of satisfaction and hunger.
He looked at his work, his expression a mix of satisfaction and hunger. That hunger slid down her trembling body, settling on the gentle swell of her breasts. “These are still too clean,” he observed, his voice a quiet rasp. He palmed one breast, his thumb scraping roughly over her nipple.
It pebbled instantly under his calloused touch, a sharp ache of anticipation. “You want this?” he asked, though his grip was already claiming her. She managed a jerky nod, her breath catching. He lowered his mouth, his tongue swirling once, hot and wet, around the tightened peak.
Then he bit.
His teeth closed over her nipple and the soft flesh beneath, not a teasing nip but a deep, sustained pressure that crossed the threshold into pure, bright pain. She arched off the mattress with a choked gasp, her fingers tangling in his hair not to push him away but to hold on. He sucked fiercely, pulling the sensitive bundle of nerves and tissue into the scorching heat of his mouth, his tongue relentlessly working the captured flesh.
A raw, purple bloom began to form beneath his lips, a twin to the marks on her neck and thighs. He released her with a wet pop, the cold air hitting the bruised, spit-slicked nipple making her whimper. “See?” he murmured, his own breathing uneven. “Now it matches.”
He surveyed the sprawling canvas of her skin, the violent blooms on her neck, her thighs, her breast. "Almost." His voice was gravel. His fingers drifted down her trembling belly, through the damp thatch of hair, but didn't touch her cunt. They pressed instead into the soft, unmarked skin of her hip bones. "Right here." He said it with the certainty of a man drawing a property line.
His mouth followed, open and hot. He didn’t kiss. He consumed. His teeth sank into the pronounced curve of her left hip, a deep, grinding pressure that made her cry out and twist against the sheets. He held the bite, sucking relentlessly, until the skin felt thin and fever-bright under his lips. A perfect, dark oval began to form.
He moved to the right hip, repeating the process with methodical brutality. "These marks," he grunted, releasing her with a wet sound, "will remind you how you sit, how you walk." He traced the fresh, aching bruises with a possessive fingertip. "They'll ache when you move, and you'll think of my mouth."
She was shuddering, a live wire of oversensitivity, every new brand a lightning strike of pain that fused with the throbbing between her legs. He finally touched her there, his fingers sliding through her slickness, finding her clit swollen and frantic. "This is what all that pain does to you, isn't it?" He rubbed a rough, perfect circle. "Turns this cunt into a fucking waterfall."