Chapter 44: 9-inch Strapon
The drive was a fever dream. The setting sun bled orange across his windshield, but all Alex saw was the afterimage of a thick, veined cock lying like a scepter across Anya’s stomach. His own erection, trapped and straining against his zipper, throbbed in time with the hum of the car’s engine. Each minute stretched, rubbery and intolerable. He took the turns into their neighborhood too fast, the tires whispering a protest against the asphalt.
He fumbled the key in the lock, his hands unsteady. The familiar click of the deadbolt sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway.
The apartment was silent. And dark. The blinds were drawn against the dying light.
“Annie?” His voice was a dry crack in the stillness.
A soft click. Then, light spilled from the bedroom doorway, a warm, golden pool cutting a path down the hall. And there she was.
She leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder pressed to the wood. Nude except for a pair of thin, black thigh-high socks that clung to the generous curves of her legs, disappearing just beneath the delicious swell where her thighs met her hips. Her hair was down, a cascade of gold over her shoulders. One hand held a glass of red wine, the other rested casually on her hip. She looked like a mirage, a beautiful ghost from his most desperate daydream.
“Hey, you,” she said, her voice a low, smoky thing. She took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving his. “Long day?”
He just stared, his bag dropping from his numb fingers with a thud. The ache in his groin sharpened into a single, pointed need.
She pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him, the silence filled by the whisper of her socks on the hardwood. She stopped inches away. He could smell her—jasmine lotion, the sharp tang of the wine, and underneath, the unmistakable, clean scent of her skin. She reached out and smoothed his tie, her fingers brushing the cotton of his shirt.
“You look tense, Alexey.” Her gaze traveled down his body, lingering at his crotch. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “Still thinking about your pictures?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Good.” She took his hand. Her skin was warm. “Come on. Time to stop thinking.”
She led him to the bedroom. The record player in the corner was on, the faint, crackling strains of some old jazz standard weaving through the air. The king-sized bed was a landscape of silken charcoal sheets, already turned down. Several pillows were stacked at the head. A small leather kit lay open on her nightstand, its contents gleaming under the soft lamp light.
“Undress,” she said, releasing his hand. She walked to the bed, her back to him, setting her wine glass down. The curve of her spine, the perfect arc of her backside above the black socks, was a brutal poem.
His fingers were clumsy on his buttons, his belt. He shed his work clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, standing there in just his briefs. The fabric tented obscenely.
“Those too,” she said without turning. “Everything. Then lie down. On your stomach.”
He obeyed, shucking the briefs. The cool air of the room was a shock on his feverish skin. He climbed onto the bed, the sheets slippery against his front. The scent of her perfume was stronger here, ingrained in the fabric. He heard the soft clink of glass, the sound of her moving. Then the bed dipped behind him.
Her weight settled over his thighs, her bare core pressing warm against the small of his back. Her fingers traced the knobs of his spine, down to the rise of his ass.
“You were so good today,” she murmured, her voice right by his ear. Her breath was sweet with wine. “So obedient. You carried that ache for me all day long. You deserve a reward.” Her hand slid between his legs, cupping his balls, giving his erection a few, slow, almost clinical pumps. He shuddered, a whimper catching in his throat. “But you also need to remember your place. My perfect, perverted supporter.”
She moved off him. “Hands up,” she instructed. He lifted his arms above his head. She took soft silk cords from the kit. She looped one around each of his wrists, not tight enough to hurt, but with a firm, inescapable finality. She tied them to the sturdy posts of the wrought-iron headboard. The bindings were secure. He was stretched out, prone, utterly exposed from the shoulders down.
“Lift your hips,” she said. He did, and she slid a firm pillow beneath his belly, propping his ass up into the air. Then, with a gentle but insistent hand, she guided his trapped erection down, tucking it backward between his legs. The angle was awkward, humiliating. His hard-on was pressed against his own perineum, the tip nudging his balls. He couldn’t thrust. He could barely move it.
“There,” she said, patting his ass cheek. “Now you can only come from one spot. The spot I choose.”
He heard the snap of a cap. The sound of thick lube being squeezed onto fingers. Then her slick, cool touch was on him, circling his entrance, massaging. He flinched, then forced himself to relax, pushing back against her fingers.
“That’s it,” she cooed. One finger pressed in, slowly, working him open. It was familiar now, a welcome intrusion. She added a second, scissoring gently. “You’re so open for me already. Thinking about that big cock all day got you ready, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” he gasped into the sheets.
“I knew it.” She removed her fingers. He heard her move off the bed again, the soft tread of her feet, a drawer opening. When she returned, the air changed. He could feel her standing beside the bed, looking down at him. “I bought something new. For us.”
He turned his head to see. She was holding a dildo. It was a deep, flesh-like tone, thicker than her wrist and impossibly long. It glistened under the lamp, a monster of silicone. It was mounted to a black leather harness she already wore, the straps cutting into the soft skin of her hips and across the pale swell of her pubic mound.
“Nine inches,” she said, running her hand along its length with a sort of reverent possession. “Still smaller than Toby’s, of course.” She said it casually, a simple fact. “But bigger than my old one. Much thicker.” She looked at him, her blue eyes dark with intent. “It’s gonna hurt soooo good, baby. You need to feel filled. You need to feel a fraction of what I felt.”
The callback was a masterstroke. A fraction of her overwhelm. His heart hammered against the pillow under his belly.
She climbed back onto the bed, settling between his splayed legs. The cool, lubed head of the toy nudged against him. It was already so much broader than her fingers, a blunt, demanding pressure.
“Breathe,” she commanded, and he sucked in a ragged gasp.
She pushed.
The initial stretch was a shocking, burning halo of pressure. Alex’s breath hitched, caught in his throat as a low groan was forced out of him. His body locked up, every muscle tensing against the slow, inexorable invasion.
“Shhh, just accept it,” Anya murmured, her voice steady but thick with concentration. She didn’t rush. She applied a firm, constant pressure, letting the thick silicone steadily conquer him millimeter by millimeter. The feeling of being split open was abstract, then very, very real.
His ass was in an impossible stretch. The burn intensified, a sharp, protesting ache that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. It wasn’t the quick sting of a spanking; this was a deep, internal rearrangement, a fullness that threatened to break him. A hot, helpless tear welled in his eye and spilled over, tracking a wet path down his temple into the sheets.
She saw it. In the dim light, the glint on his skin was unmistakable.
“You’re crying,” she whispered, not stopping. Her hips pressed forward another inch. The sound he made was guttural, a sob mixed with a groan. “Good. That’s how I felt. Remember my tears?” He nodded desperately into the pillow, the memory of her smudged mascara flashing behind his clenched eyelids.
She knew he loved this pain. She knew the difference between a dangerous hurt and this cathartic, voluntary surrender. He would have said if it was too much. He hadn’t. His silence was his consent, his trust.
So she added more lube, the cold splash a brief shock before her hand worked it around where they were joined. She pushed further.
The slow, deep slide was agony and ecstasy fused into a single, white-hot wire of sensation. She leaned over his back, her breasts pressing against his sweat-slick skin, her lips finding his ear.
“You’re my perfect foundation,” she breathed, her voice honey and gravel. “My solid, sweet boy underneath it all. Everyone sees me out there, powerful, unshakeable.” She rocked her hips, feeding him another impossible inch. The stretch was a live wire. “But you… you’re my secret. The perfect bottom. Literally.” She nipped his earlobe. “You hold me up so I can fly. You take this so I can take… more.”
Her hand smoothed over the curve of his ass, possessive. “I saw you looking at Claire’s legs in the meeting last Tuesday. Don’t lie.” She pushed deeper, and he whimpered. “Those runner’s thighs. So lean. Not like mine, are they? You like her stringy muscles?”
“No,” he choked out. “Yours. I love yours. So much.”
She knew. He was babbling, lost. The last photo from lunch, the one where Toby’s cock dwarfed her, flashed behind her own eyes. She needed him to feel that dwarfed.
Then she bottoms out.
The final, ruthless push buried the entire nine inches inside him. The thick, fake balls pressed snug against his perineum. A sharp, punctuated cry tore from his throat, muffled by the sheets. His body went rigid, a bowstring pulled past its limit. The fullness was absolute, a brutal colonization of space he didn’t know he had.
He started sobbing. Deep, ragged gulps of air that shook his entire frame. It wasn’t just the physical invasion. It was the emotional relief valve blowing, the release of a day’s torturous anticipation, the profound vulnerability of being utterly taken and known. Tears streamed freely now, a silent flood of surrender.
The sound of his breakdown didn’t soften her. It ignited her. This was her power, her artistry. His unraveling was her masterpiece.
Her hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap across his right ass cheek. The crack was loud in the jazz-filled room. A bright heat bloomed on his skin.
“This is mine,” she declared, her voice carved from stone. She spat the words. “No one has ever fucked this ass before me. No one.” Another slap, on the other side, making him jump. The toy inside him shifted, a brutal reminder. “I discovered this. I own this.”
She leaned close again, her whisper a venomous promise. “Maybe someday Toby will fuck this ass, huh?”
The question hung in the air, a serpent coiling in the perfumed room. It was a logical, terrifying progression in their constellation. It connected the phantom of the man who’d stretched her to the reality of her possession of him.
She went perfectly still, deep inside him, letting the concept metastasize. Letting him feel the full, humiliating weight of it—the possibility of being underneath her, used by her, for the pleasure of the man who’d already claimed her so completely.
“Answer me.”
The question hung in the air between them, a live wire. Alex could only sob into the pillow, the sheer vastness of the idea short-circuiting his speech. His hips gave a feeble jerk, a trapped animal's twitch. The movement made the colossal intrusion inside him shift, a fresh wave of that impossible fullness crashing through his system.
Anya didn't repeat herself. She simply waited, a deity awaiting tribute. Her stillness was more potent than any demand.
“I…” he choked, the word mangled by fabric and tears. He forced a breath, the air scraping his throat. “If… if you wanted it.”
“If I wanted it,” she echoed, her tone flat, parsing the grammar of his surrender. Her hands rested on his trembling flanks, feeling the fine tremors running through his muscles. “Look at you. You’re already full of me, and you’re picturing it, aren’t you? That thick, beautiful cock I sent you pictures of.” She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. “In your ass.”
A fresh, broken sound escaped him. His cock, trapped beneath him, gave a desperate, helpless throb against his own abdomen.
“You’re weeping for it,” she observed, her voice softening into something horrifyingly tender. She kissed his tear-salted shoulder. “My perfect, perverted boy. You don’t even know what you want, but your body does. It’s begging for the story.”
Then she moved.
She pulled back, a slow, devastating retreat that made him gasp at the loss. Then she pushed forward again, with a measured, infinite slowness. It wasn't a thrust. It was a reclamation. The thick silicone glided deep, an unstoppable piston.
Her aim was unerring. The broad, curved head of the toy pressed directly into his prostate on the inward stroke.
The sensation was an electric shock, blinding and white. It arced from his core to the tips of his fingers, to the roots of his teeth. It wasn't pleasure as he understood it; it was a seismic event, a conversion of brutal pressure into pure, neurological lightning. His back arched as much as his bonds allowed, a silent scream trapped in his lungs.
She held there, buried to the hilt, applying pressure. “There it is,” she whispered, feeling his body clamp and spasm around the invasion.
She withdrew again, just as slowly. The drag was exquisite torment. Then she pushed back, deep and steady, finding that precise, vulnerable spot once more. Another jolt. His entire world narrowed to the devastating rhythm of her hips and the tiny, bruised nucleus of sensation she was methodically destroying.
In, slow and deep, pressing.
Out, a hollowing ache.
In again, deep, pressing.
Each inward stroke was a targeted strike. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful in its intensity, a bright counterpoint to the dull, stretching ache that surrounded it. Tears continued to leak from his eyes, but the sobs had quieted into ragged, open-mouthed panting.
“You feel that?” she breathed, her own voice gaining a thin edge of strain. The harness straps dug into her hips with each movement. “That little buzz inside? That’s your ‘yes.’ That’s your body telling me everything your mouth can’t.”
She established a relentless, gentle rhythm. Slow. Deep. Unavoidable. Each completion of the stroke was a promise and a punishment. He was being unmade by degrees, his resistance, his identity, his very breath syncing to her pace.
His trapped, ignored cock began to leak in steady, shameful pulses against the pillow beneath his belly. A clear, slick testament to a pleasure he never asked for, engineered entirely from the inside out.
“Look at you,” she marveled, her voice thick with a dark affection. She picked up the pace just a fraction, the strokes gaining a hint more force. The impacts were soft, the sound of her body meeting his a damp, rhythmic slap. “Dripping like a girl. Coming apart on a piece of silicone because your girlfriend fucked a real man last night and told you all about it.”
The words were gasoline on the fire in his nerves. His hips began to push back, seeking more of that devastating pressure, trying to grind against it. A low, continuous moan unraveled from his chest.
“You want it,” she stated, no longer a question. Her hand came down on his ass again, not a slap this time, but a firm, possessive grip, fingers digging into the flesh she’d marked. She drove into him harder, the slow depth replaced by a more urgent, pounding rhythm. The prostate strikes came faster, a staccato drumbeat of overwhelming sensation. “You want to be the bridge between us. The shared secret. You want to know what it feels like to be… underneath.”
His breathing hitched, becoming sharp, frantic gasps. The coil in his gut was winding to a brutal, inevitable pitch. The room, the jazz, the world dissolved into a nexus of pressure and shame and a piercing, radiant bliss radiating from his core.
“Come for me, Alexey,” she commanded, her voice guttural and close to his ear. Her rhythm became punishing, perfect. “Come from getting fucked. Think of his face when I tell him.”
Her words were the final trigger.
She let go of all restraint. Her hips snapped forward, not with the slow, deep penetration of before, but with a frantic, piston-like drive. The force of it shoved him up the bed, the silk sheets tangling. The headboard gave a soft, rhythmic thump against the wall in time with her thrusts.
The careful, targeted strikes at his prostate became a sustained, brutal pummeling. It was a relentless, jackhammer rhythm that stole the air from his lungs. Each impact was a bright, shocking burst of sensation that blurred into the next.
"You're taking it," she grunted, her own breath coming in sharp exhales. The harness straps dug into her skin, a pain she embraced. "You're taking all of it for me. God, listen to you."
His moans had spiraled into a continuous, high-pitched keen. It was a sound of pure, unraveled sensation, stripped of any masculine pretense. It wavered with each driving impact, breaking into sharp gasps.
"Jesus, you sound like a little girl," she laughed, the sound rich and thrilled. She leaned over his back, bracing one hand by his shoulder, using the leverage to pound into him harder, deeper. "This is the you I love. The real you. Sing for me, baby."
The fullness was no longer an invasion but a fundamental truth. His body clamped around the silicon, heat pooling low in his belly, a reactor going critical. The pressure was immense, a tectonic plate shifting inside him.
"You're gonna feel this tomorrow," she promised, her voice a hoarse sing-song against his sweat-slicked shoulder. "Every time you sit. You'll shift your weight and remember my cock. You'll remember how you came while I fucked the thoughts of another man right out of your head. It’s good it’s a Saturday tomorrow, huh?"
The idea of Toby, of his smug smile and his possessive cock, fused with the physical reality of Anya's claiming. They became one overwhelming force. His pleasure wasn’t his own; it was a shared space, a conduit.
"Maybe…" She drove the idea home with a particularly vicious thrust. "Maybe he should just move in. Huh?" Her tone was light, conversational, even as she pounded him into the mattress. "One big, happy twist. He fucks me. I fuck you. You get to watch, to clean up… to join in when we let you."
The fantasy was a palace of humiliation. It was also irresistibly complete. It solved the aching geometry of their desire, plugging every socket.
His body went rigid. A silent, breathless scream locked in his throat. The coil snapped.
Orgasm tore through him like a seismic event. It didn't originate from his trapped, neglected cock, but erupted from the epicenter of violation deep inside his core. It was a full-body convulsion, a shattering wave of electricity that seared his nerves blank.
His back arched spectacularly against the restraints, every muscle corded and trembling. A raw, shattered cry finally broke free, etched with a pitch he didn't recognize as his own.
She felt him clench, a vise-grip around the toy, and she giggled with pure, unadulterated joy. "There it is! Oh, there it is, baby!" She didn't stop. She couldn't. His contractions were a delicious rhythm around her, and she rode them, pounding through his sensitivity, prolonging the violence of his release.