Chapter 4: please let me help you.
The silence in the wake of his choked reprimand had been a living thing. Days passed, threaded with a new, electric charge. Caitlyn moved through her routine, but her thoughts were a compass needle fixed true north—to him, to the sting of his palm on her clit, to the devastating emptiness that followed his release and the terrifying fullness of his hand on her throat.
It was a Tuesday evening. The muted glow of his laptop screen painted his sharp features in blue light. Some Chinese drama played softly, the dialog a low hum. He was at his desk, his posture relaxed but alert, a king in his small domain of dark wood and warm lamplight.
She stood in the doorway, having let herself in with the key he’d given her months ago—a token of casual trust that now felt like a loaded weapon. She watched him for a long moment, the line of his shoulders beneath his grey tee, the way his fingers rested on the mouse. Her body remembered everything.
She didn’t announce herself. She simply walked in, the soft rustle of her leggings the only sound. The air in the room was still, thick with the scent of sandalwood and him.
“Need something, angel?” he asked, not turning from the screen. His voice was neutral, but the old endearment hung between them, weighted with all that had happened since he’d last used it.
She didn’t answer. She moved behind his chair, placed a hand on his shoulder. The muscle was solid, warm through the cotton. She felt him still beneath her touch. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his. It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It was deep, but controlled, a slow exploration that promised rather than demanded. She, felt the slight surprise in the way his mouth softened for a fraction of a second before firming again.
Her lips traveled from his mouth to the line of his jaw, then down the corded side of his neck. She found the sensitive spot just below his ear, the one she’d discovered weeks ago, and sucked gently, her tongue tracing a wet path.
A low breath escaped him. “Baby.” The word was a warning. “What are you doing?”
Her answer was to slide her hands under the hem of his shirt, her palms flattening against the hard planes of his stomach. His skin was hot. She felt the muscle flex involuntarily at her touch. Her fingers journeyed upward, tracing the ridges of his abs, silently, with a focus that was entirely new.
“Babydoll,” he growled, his hand coming up to cover hers, stilling its motion. His grip was tight. “If you keep this up, so help me god, I will lose it.”
It was the crack in his control. The admission. It fueled her.
She pulled her hands free and walked around to stand in front of him, between him and the desk. The laptop light caught the determined set of her mouth, the dark arousal in her own eyes. She looked at him—really looked—at the tension in his clenched jaw, the predatory stillness in his posture. He was a coiled spring, and she was pulling the pin.
“Please, Daddy.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the quiet room. “I wanna make you feel good.”
She sank to her knees on the carpet.
The air left his lungs in a sharp rush. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, as if any motion would shatter the precarious dam holding back his hunger. His eyes, black and fathomless, tracked her every move.
Her fingers went to the waistband of his sweatpants. She hooked her thumbs in the elastic and the soft fabric beneath, flipping them over in one deliberate motion. He was thick and heavy, The sight of it, the sheer size and the knowledge of where it had been, what it had done to her, sent a fresh pulse of wetness between her own legs.
He made a sound—a rough groan—as her cool fingers wrapped around his base. His hand slammed down on the arm of his chair, knuckles white. He was trying to anchor himself, to not simply grab her head and fuck her mouth raw. The restraint was a visible tremor in his thighs.
She didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over the leaking tip, and opened her mouth.
Taking him in was a struggle. He was immense. The broad head pressed against her lips, then her palate, as she worked him deeper. She used her tongue, licking a thick stripe up the vein on the underside before swallowing him down. She couldn’t take all of him. The stretch was brutal, delicious. Her eyes watered.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the word torn from him.
His head fell back against the chair, tendons standing out in his neck. He didn’t touch her. He just watched, his gaze burning down at the obscene sight of her lips stretched wide around his girth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked. Saliva gathered, slicking her chin.
She found a rhythm, a shallow, wet bobbing focused on the sensitive head, her tongue swirling, her free . The sounds were filthy: wet slurps, her soft gagging as she tried to take him deeper, his ragged, escalating breaths.
“You look so pretty like this,” he managed, his voice gravel. “On your fucking knees, struggling to take me.”
She moaned around him, the vibration wringing a jolt from his hips. His control was fraying. One of his hands lifted, hovered near her head, then fisted back at his side.
She pulled off with a slick pop, gasping for air, a string of spit connecting her swollen lips to him. “Do you like it, Daddy?” she breathed, her own need a sharp claw in her belly. “Do you like my mouth?”
“Shut up and put it back in,” he commanded, his composure snapping.
He didn’t wait. His hand finally came down, not to guide, but to grasp a fistful of her hair. It wasn’t gentle. He pulled her head forward, his grip forcing her mouth back onto him. He didn’t fuck her face, not yet, but he held her there, lodged deep in her throat, making her choke and sputter
“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted, watching tears spill from her squeezed-shut eyes. He pushed in another inch, making her gag violently. “Your mouth, your cunt, it’s all the same. It’s all mine.”
Her hand working what she couldn't take. Her other hand slid up under his shirt again, her palm skating over the defined ridges of his abs. She loved the hard, unyielding texture of him, the proof of his physical control.
She moaned around his length, a deep, resonant sound of pure want.
The vibration traveled straight up his spine. A sharp, gratified hiss escaped his clenched teeth. His hand in her hair gentled, becoming a guide rather than a restraint. "Good girl," he rumbled, the praise rough and real. "such a good fucking girl for me.”
His words lit a fire in her belly. She sucked harder, her tongue pressing flat against his tip, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of his stomach. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the quiet room, underscored by his increasingly uneven breathing.
"Just like that. oh fuck princess." His hips gave a minute, involuntary thrust, bumping the head against the back of her throat. She took it, her throat relaxing in a way that made his vision blur. "You swallow daddy so fucking good."
He was unravelling. She could feel it in the tremor of his thighs, hear it in the wrecked tone of his voice. The power of it—the power to dismantle the very control he wielded over her—was a more potent drug than any touch. She doubled her efforts, her jaw aching, her world narrowing to the taste of him, the weight on her tongue, the cadence of his praise.
"It's all for me, isn't it?" he grated out, his fingers twisting in her hair. "This desperate, slutty attention.”
She nodded as best she could, a frantic bob of her head, her moans continuing to vibrate against his skin. Pre-come leaked onto her tongue, salty and bitter. She drank it down.
Caitlyn used her hand to snake it down to her clit, throbbing immensely from how turned on this was making her. She rubbed it harshly through the fabric of her leggings, trying to feel something, anything, to offset the agonizing need coiling in her belly. The pressure was blunt, frustrating, a pale imitation of what she needed.
He saw it. His dark eyes, glazed with pleasure, tracked the frantic motion of her arm. A sharp, possessive smile cut across his face. "You’re that needy? Getting yourself off while you suck my dick?" His voice was thick, strained. "You really are a greedy little whore for me aren’t you”
His words, instead of shaming her, poured gasoline on the fire in her blood. She rubbed harder, her breathing a ragged mess. She was chasing it, that peak he always controlled, the one he’d slapped out of her days before. Pre-come leaked in a steady stream now, coating her tongue, making her work easier, slicker.
His breathing hitched, turning ragged and sharp. The hand in her hair tightened, his hips lifting minutely from the chair. The tension in the room snapped taut.
“Daddy’s gonna cum, princess.” The warning was a low, guttural growl that vibrated through her skull. “You’re gonna swallow everything. You understand?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a decree. The final rule of this particular game.
She managed a frantic nod, her mouth too full to speak, her fingers still pressing uselessly against her own clit. She braced herself, her throat relaxing, opening for him.
He let go. Not of her hair, but of the last thread of his restraint. With a raw, cracked groan that tore from the center of his chest, he came. The first hot, pulsing jet hit the back of her throat with force. She swallowed convulsively, the taste flooding her senses. The second, third, fourth followed, a bitter, salty release that she took without hesitation, her throat working, drinking him down as he emptied himself into her.
She didn’t stop until he was spent, until his grip on her hair loosened, until he slipped, softening, from her bruised lips. She stayed on her knees, panting, her chin glistening, the taste of him indelible.
For a heavy second, there was only the sound of their shared, labored breathing. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Then he moved.
In one fluid, violent motion, he flipped his waistband back up. Before the elastic had even settled against his skin, his hands shot out. They locked under her arms, and he hauled her up from the floor as if she were weightless. Her legs dangled for a dizzying moment before he shifted his grip, one arm hooking under her thighs, the other around her back.
He carried her the three steps to the low, plush bed. He did not place her down. He threw her.
Her body landed with a soft, breath-stealing thump on the duvet, bouncing once. The world tilted. She stared up at the ceiling, at the familiar crack in the plaster, her heart hammering against her ribs. The casual, brutal strength of it stole the air from her lungs more effectively than the chokehold ever had.
He was on her before she could orient herself. His weight settled over her, knees pinning her thighs apart. He looked down at her, his eyes no longer glazed but sharp, focused, blazing with a new intent. He wiped a thumb across her wet chin, then smeared it over her bottom lip.
“You think you’re done?” he asked, his voice deceptively quiet. “You got your mouth fucked. You got your little clit rubbed through your pants. You think that counts?”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings. In a single, rough yank, he stripped them down to her knees. The cool air hit her wetness, making her gasp. He didn’t bother removing them completely. He just left them there, a binding around her thighs, leaving her exposed and utterly vulnerable.
He ran the heel of his hand roughly through the slick that coated her curls, then held his glistening fingers up for her to see. “This is all for me baby isn’t it?.”
Positioning himself at her entrance, he pushed inside with one deep, unforgiving stroke. The fullness was a shock, a delicious, brutal reclaiming after the intimacy of her mouth. He seated himself to the hilt, making her feel every inch, and went still.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She dragged her eyes to his. Her breath hitched.
“This pussy is mine,” he said, grinding deep, making her whimper.” He pulled out slowly, torturously, then slammed back in. “My job is to make it remember. Isn’t it?”
His hands, which had been braced on the mattress beside her head, moved. They captured her wrists in a grip that was absolute, pinning them to the bed above her. Her fingers curled into helpless fists. The angle forced her chest to arch toward him, exposed and vulnerable.
. He drives into her with a force that shakes the bed frame, that makes her cry out. “Still so fucking tight,” he snarls, the words gritted out between his teeth. “Like you’re trying to choke my dick, too. You greedy slut.”
She’s sobbing now, tears tracking into her hairline. The sensation is too much, a freight train of feeling she can’t derail. Her hips try to meet his, a feeble attempt to gain some control, but he slams them down with the weight of his own. “You don’t move. You take it.”
“You understand?” he demanded, his breath hot against her ear. He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid from her wrist, down the trembling plane of her stomach.
He pressed down, hard, on her lower stomach .
The pressure was an electric shock. It made the abstract, internal depth suddenly, terrifyingly tangible. She could feel him, a solid, rigid presence distending her from the inside, his tip butting against a deep, sensitive wall. A sharp, wailing cry tore from her throat, mangled by pleasure and a sharp spike of pain.
“Oh god,” she sobbed, her head thrashing on the duvet. “Daddy, it’s so deep, you’re so deep, I can feel—“
“I know you can feel it,” he interrupted, his voice a ragged parody of comfort. He kept the heel of his hand planted there, pinning his own invasion into her, a constant, overwhelming reminder. He ground against that deep spot, a slow, cruel rotation. “I want you to feel it. I want you to remember this exact feeling every time you think about touching yourself.”
It felt so good she couldn’t stop moaning. The sensations were a storm, indistinguishable—the brutal fullness, the sharp, bright pain of that internal pressure, the dizzying friction on her clit from the rough fabric of his sweats still against her. Her moans were constant, a broken stream of sound that poured out of her with every exhale.
He released her stomach, and before she could even process the relief, his hands closed around the backs of her thighs. His fingers dug into her soft flesh. In one powerful, definitive motion, he hiked her legs up and over his shoulders.
The angle changed everything. It stole the air from her lungs.
She screamed. It was a raw, unstifled sound of absolute surrender.
“There,” he snarled, his own control shredding on the blade of her tight, clasping heat. He held himself there, impaling her on that exquisite, painful edge. “That’s where I belong. Right fucking there. Feel how deep I am.”
She could only whine, a high, desperate sound. Her hands flew to his forearms, her nails biting in, not to push him away but to anchor herself to the source of the devastation. “You’re too big, it’s too much, Daddy, please—“
“Please what?” He began to move again, shorter, harder drives aimed solely at that deep, bruising point. Each one was a lightning strike to her system. Her vision sparkled at the edges. “Please stop? Or please don’t you dare stop?”
She couldn’t answer. Language had dissolved. Her world had narrowed to the savage rhythm of his hips and the blinding white heat coiling in her core, tighter and tighter, forged from equal parts agony and ecstasy. The bruising depth was no longer a threat; it was the entire point. It was the lesson written directly onto her flesh.
He read the shattered look in her eyes, the way her body convulsed around him, trying both to accommodate and expel the overwhelming intrusion. A grim, triumphant smile touched his lips. He leaned over her, his weight pressing her deeper into the mattress, her legs trapped near her ears. The position was profoundly vulnerable, profoundly exposing.
“Look at you,” he panted, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their brutal precision as his own end clawed at him. “My little slut, taking it all. Taking every fucking inch. Bruised for me. Ruined for me.”
His pace faltered, then surged one final time. He buried himself to the hilt and held, a sharp, guttural roar escaping him as he came. She felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside her, a claim that reached past muscle and tissue, a brand. The intimate flood triggered her own climax, a seizure that ripped through her with violent, silent intensity, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
“You ever use that toy again,” he said, “I’m gonna break it. And then I’m gonna make you watch while I fuck you with the pieces.”