Chapter 6: The Pendant's Pull
The silver spiral was a cool kiss against his skin that quickly bloomed into a pervasive warmth. Marcus stood before the window, his reflection a docile giant adorned with her tokens. The emptiness inside was no longer frightening; it was a calm, receptive pool. He touched the pendant, fingertips tracing the coiled metal.
That’s it, pet. Feel it. It’s a direct line. No more static.
Selene’s voice was no longer a whisper in the architecture. It was in the center of his skull, intimate and clear as his own thoughts. He shuddered, a full-body ripple of pleasure.
“Mistress,” he breathed. The word felt good. Right.
You look so strong. So handsome. All that power, standing there waiting for my instructions. It makes me wet, knowing you’re mine. I want to see it. All of it. Take your clothes off. Slowly.
His hands moved to the hem of his shirt. There was no internal debate, no shred of Marcus Vance to wrestle with. There was only the soothing oil of her command and the eager response of his body. He pulled the fabric up, over his head, let it drop to the polished floor. The air was cool on his torso. He unbuckled his pants, pushed them and his boxer briefs down his thighs in one motion, stepping out of the pooled fabric. He was fully erect, the ache a constant, low thrum now.
Good. Hands on your head. Interlace your fingers. Let me look at you.
He complied, lifting his arms, locking his fingers atop his skull. The posture pulled his muscles taut, exposed the vulnerable lines of his armpits, thrust his chest forward. The pendant dangled. He felt utterly displayed, and a moan escaped him. His cock twitched, leaking a bead of moisture onto the floor.
You see it, don’t you? In the glass. What you are now. My perfect toy. Say it.
He stared at his reflection—the heroic build, the obedient stance, the obscene arousal. “I’m your toy, Mistress.”
My pretty, fuckable toy. Now touch yourself. But only with one hand. Keep the other on your head. Show me you can follow directions.
His right hand came down, shakily. He wrapped his fingers around his shaft, his own touch feeling alien and electric. He stroked, a slow, tight glide from root to tip. His hips began to pump gently into his own fist.
“Fuck,” he whined, his head lolling back.
Look at yourself. Watch the powerful Solaris jerk his own cock like a bitch in heat.
His eyes snapped back to the mirror. He watched the performance—the flex of his bicep, the bunching of his shoulder, the desperate, rhythmic motion of his hand. Shame tried to surface, a ghost from a buried life, but it was instantly swamped by a tsunami of raw, deviant pleasure. This was what he was for. This was his purpose.
Faster. Make yourself feel good for me. I’m touching myself too, you know. Thinking of your big, stupid cock.
A ragged cry tore from him. His hand sped up, the sound wet and slick in the quiet room. His thighs trembled. Pre-cum welled, slicking his frantic pace. He was a machine of pleasure, built and operated by her voice.
“I’m… I’m gonna…”
Not yet. Stop.
He froze, his whole body screaming in protest, his hand a tense vise around his throbbing erection. The denial was a physical pain.
Turn around. Bend over. Put your hands on the glass. I want to see that ass in the air. You have such a nice, tight ass for a hero.
Whimpering, he turned, placing his palms flat against the cool window. He bent from the waist, presenting himself. The city lights twinkled far below, indifferent. His reflection was now a blurred outline of submission.
Spread your cheeks. Show me your hole.
Tears of humiliation and burning arousal welled in his eyes. He reached back with one hand, pulling the firm muscle of his buttock aside, exposing himself completely to the empty room, to her unseen gaze.
Beautiful. So pink and tight. You’ve never taken a cock there, have you?
“N-no, Mistress.”
You will. And you’ll beg for it. Now you can finish. But only while you’re bent over like the slut you are. And I want to hear you say what you are.
His hand flew back to his cock. The angle was awkward, merciless. It was no longer about pleasure, but about execution. He jackhammered into his fist, his other hand splayed against the glass for support.
“I’m your slut!” he cried out, his voice breaking. “I’m your dumb fucking slut, Mistress! I’m gonna cum!”
Do it. Coat the window.
His orgasm slammed into him with the force of a freight train. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a seismic release of identity. He shouted, a raw, animal sound, as ribbons of cum shot from him, streaking the pristine glass with opaque, pearlescent lines. His body bucked, muscles seizing, until he was spent, hollowed out, draped over the windowsill panting like a dog.
Very good. Now clean it up.
He didn’t hesitate. Still trembling, he sank to his knees before the stained window. He leaned forward and swiped the first streak with his tongue. The taste was bitter, salted with his own degradation. He cleaned the glass