Chapter 15: The Second Session
The blanket smelled like him—motor oil, cedar, and clean sweat. Stone kept her face buried in the rough fabric, the tremors in her limbs slowly subsiding to a faint, post-storm vibration. Zane had pulled a stool over and sat facing her, his knees bracketing hers. He was quiet, just watching her breathe.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rasp. “You okay?”
It was such a simple, human question. It unraveled something inside her. She nodded into the blanket, then shook her head, then let out a wet, choked sound that was almost a laugh. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I feel… hollowed out.”
“Good.” He said it without cruelty. It was a statement of fact. “That’s the point. To strip everything else away.”
He reached out, his fingers gently untangling a knot from her long, damp hair. The tenderness was more disorienting than the fuck had been. “The body remembers,” he said. “Right now, every cell in you is rewriting its history. You’re not the girl who walked in here three hours ago.”
She lifted her head. Her eyes felt swollen. “Who am I?”
“Mine.” The word held no arrogance now. It sounded like a solemn, terrifying truth. He stood up, the moment of softness evaporating. “On your feet.”
Her legs protested, muscles watery and sore. She wobbled, and his hand shot out to steady her elbow, firm and impersonal. He led her, blanket still clutched around her, back toward the center of the garage. Not to the chair. To the heavy, steel-topped workbench. The surface was cool and scarred from a hundred projects.
“Bend over. Put your hands on the far edge.”
A fresh coil of anticipation tightened low in her belly. She obeyed, letting the blanket pool at her feet. The air was cool on her heated skin. She heard him move behind her, the click of a latch opening, the rustle of his kit bag.
“You took my cock in that pretty, tight ass,” he said. His palm smoothed over one globe of her ass, possessive. “It was a start. Tonight, we go further.”
She heard the slick, viscous sound of lube. Then something cold and blunt nudged against her back hole. Not his cock. Something smoother, harder. A plug. It was thick, tapering to a wide base. He worked it against her, the lube easing the initial stretch, but the sensation of being filled there, so deliberately, made her gasp. He pushed it in with a steady, relentless pressure until the widest part stretched her ring to a burning ache before popping past. She moaned, her forehead pressing against the cool metal of the bench. The plug sat inside her, a constant, intrusive fullness.
“Feel that,” he commanded. “Remember that feeling. Ownership.”
His fingers, slick with more lube, found her cunt from behind. She was swollen, hypersensitive, still dripping from his earlier claim. One finger slid in easily. Then a second. He scissored them, stretching her differently. “This hole is greedy,” he murmured, crooking his fingers to press a spot that made her jolt. “It comes easy. It’s hungry. But this…” He tapped the base of the plug, sending a shocking vibration through her core. “…this is where you learn real surrender.”
He began to fuck her with his fingers, a slow, deep rhythm while the plug remained a stationary, stretching presence in her ass. The dual sensation was maddening. Her cunt clenched around his thrusting fingers, each movement shifting the plug inside her just enough to remind her it was there. Pleasure built in overlapping waves, muddied and intense.
“Zane,” she breathed, a plea without direction.
“I want to hear you say it,” he growled, adding a third finger to her cunt, stretching her to a delicious burn. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m yours.” The words were torn from her.
“What else?”
“I’m… I’m a slut for your cock.” She didn’t know where the words came from. They felt true, filthy, and freeing.
“Damn right you are.” He withdrew his fingers with a wet sound. He unzipped his jeans. She heard him slick his cock, the sound heavy in the quiet garage. He positioned himself at her entrance, the thick head pressing against her. But he didn’t enter. He reached around with his other hand, his fingers closing around the base of the plug.
“Tonight, little girl,” he whispered, his voice dark with promise, “you’re going to learn to take both. You’re going to feel so full of me you won’t know where you end and I begin.”
He pulled the plug out slowly, the thick ridge dragging exquisitely against her over-sensitized rim. The empty, aching feeling lasted only a second. In one fluid, brutal motion, he pushed his cock into her ass at the same time he shoved three fingers back into her cunt.
Stone screamed.
The invasion was absolute, shocking, a sensation so profound it bordered on pain. He was everywhere, splitting her open, filling every possible space. He held himself there, buried to the hilt in her ass, his fingers deep in her pussy, letting her body convulse and adjust to the impossible stretch.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his own composure cracking. “Look at you. Taking it. Taking all of me.”
He began to move. A shallow thrust with his hips, a counter-thrust with his fingers. It was a relentless, staggering rhythm. She was pinned, impaled, a plaything for his furious need. Each movement jolted through her, a lightning storm of sensation with no center, no single point of pleasure, just a crashing tsunami of feel. She babbled, words dissolving into sobs, into chants of his name.
He fucked her like that, a dual claim, for what felt like an eternity. His breath sawed in her ear, his free hand fisted in her hair, holding her head down. The workbench rattled against the concrete floor with their force.
“Come for me,” he snarled. “Come around my fingers while I own your ass. Do it.”
The command triggered something deep in her primal brain. Her body, overloaded and ravaged, shattered. An orgasm detonated, unlike any before—a full-body seizure of release that ripped a ragged, broken scream from her throat. Her cunt clamped violently around his driving fingers, her ass clenched his cock, milking him, and he roared, his own release pounding into her depths in hot, relentless pulses.
He collapsed over her, his weight driving her harder into the metal bench. They stayed like that, welded together by sweat and come and utter exhaustion. The only sound was their ragged, synced breathing.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled his fingers from her cunt and withdrew his soft cock from her ass. She winced at the emptiness, at the sudden, aching void. He turned her around, her back against the bench, and looked at her. Her face was tear-streaked, her eyes wide and shell-shocked.
He cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear. His own expression was raw, unguarded. The steel in his eyes had softened to something like awe, and a deep, unsettling fear.
“Ryan texted,” he said, his voice quiet, almost hoarse.
The name was a bucket of ice water. Reality slammed back into the garage. Her husband. The party next door. The life she was supposed to be living.
“What?” Her voice was a cracked whisper.
“While you were in the chair. Your phone lit up on the bench. He asked if you’d left the party, said he couldn’t find you.” Zane’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t answer it.”
The implications hung in the air, thicker than the smell of sex. The careful separation was crumbling. The outside world was knocking, and the sound was deafening.
Stone stared at him, the glorious, brutal emptiness inside her suddenly flooded with a cold, sharp dread. The wall was gone. And now, something else was coming right through the hole.