Chapter 20: The morning after their emotional confession, Lydia immediately reasserts dominance by taking Randy anally with her largest strap-on, combining aftercare with relentless penetration as she documents his body's trained responses with clinical precision.
The first sensation was the cold. A smooth, insistent pressure against his most private, tender flesh. Randy stirred from a deep, exhausted sleep, the kind that felt like drowning in warm tar. His body ached in a dozen places—a deep muscular throb in his shoulders from being shackled, a raw, hot tenderness between his legs.
The pressure increased.
His eyes fluttered open. Morning light cut through the slats of the blinds, painting tiger stripes across Lydia’s bedroom. She was already awake, propped on one elbow beside him, watching him. Her hair was a mess of gold on the pillow. Her expression was calm, assessing. And pressed against his asshole was the firm, cool silicone of her strap-on.
It was already strapped to her. The black harness contrasted starkly against her pale hips. He could see the gleam of lube on the dark faux cock.
“Morning, pet,” she said, her voice sleep-rough and intimate. She leaned down and kissed his shoulder, a soft, dry press of lips. Then she pushed forward with her hips.
The head of the toy breached him, a familiar, stretching fullness that made him gasp. He was still loose, still open from the night before, and it slid in with a slick, shameful ease.
“There we go,” she murmured, sinking deeper, inch by inexorable inch, until her hips were snug against his ass. She was fully sheathed inside him. In the quiet morning light, it felt more violating than the dungeon. This was domestic. This was waking up.
She held still, buried to the hilt, letting him feel the complete, inescapable fullness. “Time to prove last night wasn’t a fluke,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “Let’s see how many times you can come from just this before breakfast.”
She began to move. A slow, deep, rocking motion. Not the brutal piston of the strangers. This was deliberate, possessive. Each stroke dragged perfectly over his prostate, a persistent, electric signal that shot straight to his cock, which was already stiffening, trapped between his stomach and the sheets.
“You’re mine,” she chanted softly, pumping into him with a steady rhythm. “This ass is mine. These orgasms are mine. You don’t get to decide. You just get to take what I give you.”
He groaned, his face pressed into the pillow. The pleasure was immediate and intense, a direct line wired from his prostate to the tip of his dick. After the numbing brutality of the cross, this targeted assault was overwhelming. His hips twitched, trying to fuck back against her, to increase the friction.
She paused, pulling almost all the way out. “Ah-ah. You take. You don’t participate.” She slapped his ass, a sharp, stinging crack that made him jolt. Then she sank back in, deep and slow. “You’re just a hole for my use. Even now. Especially now.”
She established a ruthless, perfect tempo. Long, slow strokes that made him see stars, followed by short, shallow ones that teased the nerve-dense rim. She was an expert, reading the tremors in his thighs, the hitches in his breath. She was edging him without touching his cock.
“You’re gonna come,” she stated, her voice clinical. “You’re going to come hands-free, like a good boy. Just from getting fucked in the ass.”
He was whimpering, a steady, pathetic sound muffled by the pillow. The coil in his gut tightened, a knot of pure, undiluted sensation. He was hurtling toward the edge, his balls drawing up tight.
As he tensed, on the very brink, she stopped.
Completely.
She held still, buried deep inside him. The frantic need had no outlet. It crashed back into him, a wave of agonizing frustration. He cried out, a ragged sound of pure loss.
“Not yet,” she said, amused. She withdrew, leaving him empty and throbbing. “Roll over. I want to see your face.”
Trembling, he obeyed. The sight of her kneeling over him, the black harness and the toy jutting out, glistening with his own relaxation and her lube, was devastatingly erotic. His cock stood straight up, leaking copiously onto his abdomen.
She guided the slick head to his entrance again and pushed back in, watching his face as she filled him. His eyes rolled back. His mouth fell open.
“Yeah,” she breathed, a flicker of raw hunger in her blue eyes. “That’s it. Show me. Show me how much you need it.”
She fucked him harder now, her pace intensifying. The bed rocked, the headboard tapping a gentle rhythm against the wall. She was chasing her own pleasure on him, using his body. The second build-up was faster, more desperate. The pressure built, a screaming tension in his core.
“Lydia… I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Do it,” she commanded, her own breath coming faster. “Come. Now.”
It detonated. A raw, grinding orgasm ripped through him with no hand ever touching his dick. His cock jerked, pulsing ropes of cum that splashed over his stomach and chest, a weak, continuous stream driven purely by the internal pressure. He arched off the bed, a silent scream on his lips, his channel clamping down on the silicone inside him.
She rode him through it, her movements becoming jagged, until she let out a low, satisfied groan of her own, her body shuddering with a phantom climax.
She collapsed beside him, both of them slick with sweat. She reached over and swirled a finger through the mess on his chest, bringing it to her lips. She tasted him, her eyes on his. “One,” she said.
They dozed, a tangled mess of limbs. An hour later, maybe less, he woke to her hand wrapped around his flaccid cock, stroking him to a half-hard state. Before he was fully awake, she was on him again, the strap-on pushing back into his sore, willing body.
“Let’s go for two,” she whispered.
The second time was a struggle. His body was oversensitive, his mind hazy. She worked him relentlessly, her rhythm unyielding. She talked him through it, her voice a filthy, hypnotic mantra. “You’re just a fucktoy. Your only purpose is to be used and to come when I allow it. Your brain is empty. Your body is mine. Come for me, you slut. Drip on yourself again.”
He sobbed as the second, weaker orgasm was pulled from him, a thin, milky dribble joining the crusted mess on his skin.
“Two.”
She made him shower. He stood under the hot water, legs shaky, while she watched from the toilet seat, critiquing the way he washed her property. She fed him toast and orange juice at the kitchen island while she sat across from him, still naked, the harness and toy a bizarre accessory to the domestic scene. She scrolled through her phone with one hand, the other resting possessively on his thigh.
“You have a sales conference call at ten,” she said, not looking up. “I expect you to be professional. Articulate. The powerful Randy Thompson.” She finally met his eyes, a cruel smile on her lips. “And the whole time, you’ll be sitting there, remembering what’s in your ass.”
As if on cue, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, gleaming metal butt plug. It was steel, with a delicate floral design on the base. “A more permanent reminder,” she said.
He said nothing. He just stood up, turned, and braced his hands on the cool granite of the countertop. He heard the squirt of lube. The cold metal tip pressed, then popped past his stretched ring. She worked it in slowly, turning it, until the filigreed base settled snug against him. The full, stretching weight of it inside him was a constant, obscene presence.
She spun him around and kissed him, deep and searching. “My good boy,” she said, patting his cheek. “Now go get dressed. You have a multi-million dollar deal to close.”
He did. He put on his tailored navy suit, his crisp white shirt, his Italian leather shoes. He looked in the mirror: the successful executive, the salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, the gaze confident. He looked powerful.
And underneath it all, he was filled with her. Every shift in his chair during the video call, every crossed leg, sent a secret thrill through him. He closed the deal, his voice steady and persuasive. And the whole time, the plug was there, a hidden truth, a anchor to the terrifying, glorious reality of his life now.
When the call ended, he texted her. Deal closed. 3.2 mil.
Her reply was instantaneous. Good. Now get in your car, drive to the adult bookstore on Eastern. Stall three. You have thirty minutes.
A location. A gloryhole. A time limit.
He stood up from his home office desk, his body humming with a mixture of dread and desperate anticipation. He adjusted his suit jacket, feeling the plug shift inside him. He was Randy Thompson, high-end security sales executive.
And he was her pet, on his way to get his dick sucked by a stranger because she told him to.
He picked up his keys, his hand perfectly steady. The two men existed in the same skin, now. There was no more conflict. Only purpose.
He got in the car and drove.
He drove through the sprawl of Las Vegas, the morning sun glaring off endless asphalt. The steel plug shifted inside him with every turn, a cold, insistent reminder that the man in the suit was just a costume. His phone, placed on the passenger seat, remained silent. Thirty minutes. The conference call charm had evaporated, replaced by a low tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with caffeine.
The adult bookstore was a low, windowless building squatted between a pawn shop and a shuttered restaurant. A faded sign buzzed overhead. He parked in the far corner of the lot, staring at the entrance. His polished Oxfords looked absurd against the cracked cement. He took a breath, the air conditioning still blowing on his face.
Then he got out. He walked. Each step resonated through his body, a metallic echo deep in his core.
The inside was dim, lit by the blue glow of video booth monitors and the harsh fluorescence over a cashier's cage. The air smelled of industrial cleaner, stale cigarettes, and something sweetly chemical. A man behind thick plexiglass didn’t look up from his phone. Randy moved past racks of magazines and toys, his eyes fixed ahead, following signs pointing toward the “Arcade.”
A narrow hallway plunged into deeper shadow, lined with scratched black doors. Faint, rhythmic thumps and muffled grunts leaked from some. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic animal trapped in starched cotton. He found stall three. The door was heavy, coated in peeling black paint. Graffiti was scribbled near the handle: Sluts only.
He pushed it open.
The space was a closet, barely wider than his shoulders. It was stifling, the air thick and used. A bare bulb behind a wire cage in the ceiling cast a sickly yellow light. The wall in front of him was piece of stained plywood, and cut into it at waist height was a rough, fist-sized hole.
A gloryhole.
On a small shelf sat a squeeze bottle of generic lubricant, nearly empty. A used towel was crumpled in the corner. He stood there, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing him in. The sounds of the place enveloped him—the crinkle of a package next door, a low cough from another stall, the persistent, tinny beat of porn from unseen speakers.
Lydia’s plug felt enormous inside him now, a cold anchor in this hot, shameful darkness. His cock, traitorous and dense, strained against his suit pants. Instructions were implicit. He fumbled with his belt, the clink of the buckle obscenely loud. He unzipped, pushed his trousers and boxers down to his knees. The cool, grimy air touched his skin.
He shuffled forward. The rough edge of the plywood pressed against his hip. He guided himself through the hole.
The other side was dark. Silent. He waited, exposed, the tip of his cock just poking into that unknown space. Time dilated. Sweat trickled down his temple. He heard a door open and shut further down the line. Footsteps. They stopped. He held his breath.
A shadow moved on the other side of the wall. He heard the rustle of clothing, a zipper. Then, the warmth of another body near his exposed flesh. A hand, calloused and dry, wrapped around his shaft. It gave a few rough, testing tugs. No preamble. No words.
He bit down on a gasp, his forehead falling against the cold plywood.
Then the mouth was on him. It was hot, shockingly wet, and utterly skilled. The stranger took him deep, all the way to the root in one smooth, practiced glide. Randy’s knuckles turned white where he braced against the wall. The suction was intense, a perfect, rhythmic pressure. The tongue swirled around his head each time he pulled back, then flattened along his sensitive underside on the next descent.
“Fuck,” Randy whispered into the paint-chipped wood.
The man on the other side worked him with a detached, mechanical efficiency. It was a transaction. But the skill was undeniable. The stranger’s pace was relentless, a steady, deep-throating punch that built the pressure in Randy’s groin with terrifying speed. His hips began to stutter, fucking minimally into that wet, willing heat. The plug inside him seemed to vibrate with his pounding heart.
He was hurtling toward the edge, the last thirty-six hours of relentless sensation fueling a wildfire in his nerves. The humiliation, the exposure, the absolute anonymity of it—it was all gasoline. He was going to come. He was going to erupt down a stranger’s throat.
As if sensing the imminent climax, the mouth pulled off him with a wet pop. The calloused hand returned, jerking him fast and rough. The abrupt change shattered his rhythm. He whimpered.
“Yeah, you wanna blow?” a low, gruff voice muttered from the darkness. “Go on, then.”
The hand twisted on his upstroke. It was too much, too crude after the expert mouth. The peak fractured. His orgasm roared up but the sensation was stripped, incomplete. Thick spurts shot through the hole into the dark, splattering onto the floor or the man’s shoes, a weak, disappointed pulse. It was a ruined, draining sensation, leaving him shaky and empty.
The hand released him immediately. He heard a sniff, the sound of a zipper. Footsteps walked away.
Randy slumped against the wall, spent and slick, his softening cock still dangling through the hole. He felt hollowed out. Used. Exactly as ordered. He slowly pulled himself back into the confines of the stall. He didn’t wipe himself clean. The sticky residue clung to his skin as he pulled his suit trousers back up, the fabric chafing against his sensitive flesh.
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. A single text from Lydia.
He entered stall. Now come home. I’m not done with you.