Chapter 13: Dominated
The soundproof door clicked shut behind her, sealing her into a new kind of silence. The Live Studio Set was darker than the Training Room, the air colder. The single spotlight shone like a moonbeam on the centerpiece: a heavy, padded chair of black leather and polished steel. It wasn’t a bench or a harness. It looked like a dentist’s chair designed by a sadist, with restraints for wrists, ankles, thighs, and a wide band across the torso. At its base, a complex mechanical armature lay dormant, a chrome nest of pistons and hinges.
“The throne for our princess,” Damien said, his voice echoing slightly in the bare space. He guided her, a firm hand on her lower back. She was naked except for the thin silver leash still attached, its chain whispering against her thigh. Her body felt different—looser, used, the memory of six inches a permanent echo in her bones. “Marcus, we ready?”
From the shadows beyond the spotlight, Marcus’s calm voice replied. “Cameras one through four are live and tracking. Audio is clean. Feed is going to the gallery.” He gestured toward a vast, dark mirror that made up one entire wall. Willow knew, with a sudden lurch in her stomach, that people were on the other side. Watching. Waiting. Paying.
Damien helped her into the chair. The leather was cool against her skin. He fastened the restraints with efficient, impersonal clicks. The thigh cuffs spread her legs wide, bending her knees and lifting them toward her chest, presenting her completely. The torso strap secured her, leaving her arms pinned at her sides. She was utterly open, utterly displayed.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his eyes checking each strap.
She nodded, unable to speak. The gaze from the one-way mirror felt like a physical pressure.
Damien picked up the toy from a nearby stand. It was the same tapered bronze monster from before, still gleaming with a fresh coat of lube. He held it up, turning it slowly in the light for the unseen audience. “Our instrument,” he said, his lecture voice returning, but quieter, more intimate for the mic clipped to his collar. “Last session, our subject took six inches of this, with admirable vocal enthusiasm. Today, we explore beyond. The goal is not to brutalize, but to educate. To teach the internal sphincters to welcome greater depth. To find pleasure in the progression.”
He attached the toy to the end of the mechanical arm with a soft click. The arm whirred softly, positioning the blunt, tapered tip against her. It felt cool, a stark contrast to her feverish skin.
“We begin with a review,” Damien murmured, more to her now. “A familiar five inches. A homecoming.”
He nodded to Marcus in the shadows. A low, hydraulic hum filled the room. The arm began to move, smooth and inexorable. The tip pressed, found her loosened entrance, and slid in. The initial penetration was shockingly easy, a wet, smooth glide. It was still huge, still stretching, but her body recognized the shape. A shaky sigh escaped her as it sank to the five-inch mark, the deep fullness flooding back, a sensation now edged with a strange kind of relief.
“Good,” Damien said. He wasn’t touching the controls. He stood beside her, his hand resting on her bound thigh, observing. “Just breathe into it. Remember the feeling.”
The machine began a slow, gentle piston stroke. Five inches out, five inches in. A rhythmic, deep massage. It was almost gentle. The punishing intensity of the previous session was replaced by a relentless, robotic patience. After a minute, Damien’s hand moved from her thigh. His fingers found her clit, not with the cruel pull of the leash, but with the same soft, circular caress he’d used before.
Pleasure shimmered up from his touch, colliding with the deep, stretching presence inside her. She moaned, her head falling back against the headrest.
“This is the foundation,” he explained, his voice a low rumble near her ear, for her and the mic. “Pleasure associated with depth. Your nerves are learning that this feeling—of being packed, of being opened—is the precursor to something good. We’re rewiring you from the inside out.”
The machine continued its slow fucking. Damien’s fingers worked her with hypnotic consistency. The combination was dangerously effective, lulling her into a trance of stretched, buzzing contentment. She was floating on it, her previous desperate begging replaced by soft, continuous whimpers.
Then the stroke changed.
On the next inward glide, the machine didn’t stop at five. It pushed smoothly, relentlessly, to five and a half.
The new depth was a hot spark of sudden intensity, a protest from a place that hadn’t yet been colonized. Her eyes flew open. She gasped.
Damien’s fingers never stopped their gentle circles. “That’s it,” he coaxed. “That’s new territory. Your body doesn’t know it yet. Teach it. Clench around it.”
She did, involuntarily, a tight spasm around the unfamiliar invasion.
“Good girl,” he purred. “Feel how it pushes back? That’s the toy claiming that space. Now relax. Let it own it.”
The machine withdrew to five inches, then pushed back to five and a half again. And again. A new rhythm was established: five, five and a half, five, five and a half. Each time the extra half-inch penetrated, it burned a little less. Each time, Damien’s thumb pressed a little more firmly on her clit, flooding the new, sharp sensation with a wave of dull, sweet heat.
She was panting, sweat beading on her forehead. The dual sensation was pulling her apart. The deep, analytical part of her mind was being systematically dismantled by the physical feedback loop. She wasn't a student being trained. She was a hole being formatted.
“Damien,” she whispered, her voice thick.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I… I want it.” The words were clumsy, torn from the part of her that was winning. The part that craved the fullness, the stretch, the sweet friction of his fingers.
“Want what?” he asked, his tone deliberately light, teasing.
“More.” It was a bare sigh.
“More what?” His fingers slowed, a silent threat to withdraw the pleasure.
She swallowed, her throat tight. She looked past him, toward the dark mirror, imagining the hungry eyes. She wanted to give them a show. She wanted to earn his pride. The confused, submissive need coalesced into a desperate, honest plea. “I want… I want you to dominate it. My ass. Please. It’s yours. It’s… it’s just a hole for you to use. Train it. Please, Damien, train my ass to take it. Make it take the big toy. I don’t… I don’t know how to make it open up more. You have to make it. You have to force it to be good. To take what you give it.”
There it was. The explicit, verbal submission. Not just begging for sensation, but begging for his control over her most private, violated part.
A slow smile spread across Damien’s face. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, princess.” He straightened up, addressing the room. “The subject is formally requesting advanced conditioning. She’s offering her body to the process. That’s the key moment. The conscious mind surrenders to the will of the trainer.”
He gave a slight nod to Marcus. The machine’s rhythm halted, holding her at five and a half inches deep. The stretch was a constant, burning presence.
“Progress is slow,” Damien announced, his hand returning to her clit, his touch firm and claiming. “We honour the body’s limits by gently, persistently expanding them. We will target seven inches today. Not by forcing it, but by convincing every millimeter of nerve and muscle that seven inches is its new home.”
He moved his other hand, spreading the cheeks of her ass wider, giving the cameras a clearer view of where she was impaled. “Now, we acquaint her with six.”
The machine moved. It withdrew to five, then pushed forward. It didn’t stop at five and a half. It glided smoothly, devastatingly, to a full six inches.
The feeling was monumental. It was the deepest she’d ever been, but this time, it wasn’t a shocking, singular thrust. It was the culmination of a slow, pleasurable ascent. The burning stretch was profound, a feeling of being filled to her absolute current capacity. A choked cry ripped from her throat, part pain, part stunned awe.
Damien’s fingers danced on her clit, now applying pinpoint pressure, circling the swollen nub in time with the machine’s new, shallow oscillations—just tiny, half-inch pulses at the six-inch depth. “This is it, Willow. This is your limit. And we’re going to live here. We’re going to make this limit comfortable. We’re going to make it sweet.”
He was right. The pain, sharp at first, began to mutate under the relentless, pleasurable counterpoint of his touch. It blended into a single, overwhelming signature of feeling—fullness. Her body, confused and overstimulated, began to interpret the deep stretch as just another form of intense sensation, one that made his attention to her clit feel ten times more potent.
Tears streamed down her temples into her hair. She was so full she felt hollowed out everywhere else. “It’s so deep,” she sobbed, the words for him, for the mic, for the watchers. “I can feel it in my belly. I’m so full of you, of it… please…”
“Please what, gaping princess?” His voice was hot gravel.
“Please… make it take more. I want it to take seven for you. I want my… my rosebud…” she used his term, the sweetness of it fouled by the context, “…I want it to be a good rosebud. I want it to be stretched open and used. Train it, Damien. Own it. Make it yours. I’m just… I need to gape for you.”
He groaned, a sound of pure approval. “God, listen to that. Perfect.” He increased the speed of his fingers minutely. “You hear that, everyone? That’s authentic submission. That’s the breakthrough.”
The machine pulsed at six inches, over and over, a deep, internal hammering that shook her whole body in the restraints. She was babbling now, a continuous stream of filth and surrender, telling him how full she was, how she wanted to be a sleeve for the toy, how her ass belonged to him, how she needed him to dominate it completely, to make it accept anything he desired.
For long, exquisite minutes, they held at six. Damien’s hand never left her clit, wringing pleasure from her that was inextricably tied to the violation. She hovered on the edge of an orgasm that never quite broke, sustained in a state of agonized, delicious need.
Then, during one of the inward pulses, Damien’s free hand went to a small control panel on the chair’s side. “And now,” he whispered, his eyes locked on hers, glinting in the spotlight, “we ask for seven.”
He pressed a button.
The machine, on its next inward stroke, didn’t pulse. It pushed.
It slid from six to six and a quarter inches.
The new quarter-inch was a universe. It wasn't just deeper; it was a different kind of pressure, a slow-burning insistence against a part of her that had never been touched. Her breath hitched, then released in a long, guttural groan. A fresh trickle of her own arousal seeped from her pussy, adding to the mess on the leather beneath her.
"Listen to that," Damien said, his voice thick with a predatory satisfaction. He finally took his hand from her clit, and she whimpered at the loss. But he didn't stop. His fingers, slick from her, pressed down firmly on her lower abdomen, just above her pubic bone.
He pressed in, a deep, probing massage.
"Feel that, Willow?" He wasn't asking. He was directing her attention inward, to the internal reality of her own violation. Under his fingers, through her own flesh, she could feel a firm, foreign bulge. The shape of the toy’s tip, buried deep, distending her from the inside. A choked sob escaped her.
"Yeah, you feel it," he murmured. He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, his other hand coming up to splay across her stomach, framing the slight, taut swelling. "Look down. Look at what you're taking."
She forced her head up, looked down the length of her body. Between her breasts, past the rise of her belly, she saw it—a subtle but undeniable protrusion where the deep end of the toy pushed against her inner wall. The visual proof stole the air from her lungs.
"Just a little hint," he said, his tone almost casual, like he was commenting on the weather. He gave the bulge a gentle tap. "We get you to seven, then seven and a half? That's gonna be higher. We'll have this little guy right up under your ribs. You'll be able to watch your own stomach move when it fucks you."
The image he painted wasn't one of horror. In her twisted, overstimulated state, it was a dark, compelling fantasy. A full-body possession. Heat, shameful and intense, flooded her. She groaned again, a different sound this time—lower, wanting.
"Fuck," she breathed, her eyes glazing as she stared at the slight swell. "You'd see it. Everyone would see it. I'd be so deep… I'd be stuffed all the way up to my guts." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, filthy and real. "I want that. I want to look pregnant with your toy, Damien. I want you to fuck it so deep I taste it."
"That's my girl," he said, a dark laugh in his voice. His hands moved from her stomach. They cupped her breasts, his thumbs finding her hard, peaked nipples. He didn't just tease them. He took them between his thumbs and forefingers and pulled, firm and steady, stretching the sensitive flesh.
The sharp pinch was a brilliant counterpoint to the deep, spreading fullness below. It grounded her and scattered her mind at once. She cried out, her back arching as much as the restraints allowed.
"Tell me more," he demanded, his tug rhythmic, insistent. "Tell me what you want them to see."
"I want them to see my belly bulge!" she gasped, the words tumbling out, fueled by the twin sensations. "I want them to watch you fuck my colon like it's a pussy. I want my rosebud so stretched and used it just… it just stays open for you. A perfect, messy hole for your machine. Make me take it all. Please, I need it. I need to be your deepest fucking girl."
Her dirty talk was raw, uncensored, a stream of consciousness from the part of her he had successfully reprogrammed. Damien nodded, his expression one of intense focus. He looked toward the one-way glass, as if sharing a triumph with the silent watchers.
"Feed that need," he told her, his voice dropping back into a coaching rhythm. "That need is the engine. Let it push you through the burn." He gave her nipples one final, sharp tug that made her shout, then released them.
He nodded to Marcus.
The machine, still parked at six and a quarter inches, hummed back to life.
It withdrew slowly, almost tenderly, back to six. Then, with no warning shift in speed, it pushed forward again. This time, it didn't stop at six and a quarter.
It glided to six and a half.
The invasion was exponential. A white-hot line of pure stretch screamed inside her, a feeling of being irrevocably opened. Her vision splintered at the edges. Her mouth opened in a silent scream before sound finally ripped its way out, a ragged, tearing noise that echoed in the sleek chamber.
Her entire world narrowed to that single, brutal line of fire inside her. The machine held her there, vibrating faintly, as if savoring its own penetration. Every nerve from her pelvis to her throat was a live wire, screaming at the invasion. She couldn’t breathe.
Damien watched her face, studying the tears, the snot, the way her lips trembled around ragged gasps. He didn’t touch the controls. He just let her feel it. “There it is,” he said, his voice impossibly calm. “That’s the real edge. Not pain. Not even stretch. It’s the sound your boundaries make when they break.”
He waited until her silent scream dissolved into wet, hacking sobs. Then he moved.
In one smooth motion, he dropped to his knees between her splayed, elevated thighs. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her slightly, adjusting the angle. The movement made the six and a half inches shift, and she whimpered, a high, broken sound.
“Shhh,” he murmured, his face now level with her ravaged, glistening sex. He blew a cool stream of air across her swollen, leaking flesh. “You asked me to train it. To own it. This is how.”
He didn’t use his fingers. He leaned in, and his tongue—flat, warm, and deliberate—licked a long, slow stripe from her dripping entrance all the way up to her throbbing clit.
The sensation was a lightning strike. Pure, undiluted, shocking pleasure, so acute it bypassed her shattered nerves and went straight to her spine. She jerked in the restraints, a wordless cry torn from her. It was affection. It was intimacy. It was a cruel joke in the middle of the violation.
He did it again, slower this time, circling her clit with a focused, relentless pressure. His eyes were open, watching her face, watching her reactions as he lavished attention on the one part of her not being stretched beyond recognition. The contrast was madness. The deep, burning fullness in her ass and this exquisite, tender friction on her clit created a feedback loop that short-circuited her pain into a twisted, mounting ecstasy.
“You taste desperate,” he whispered against her, his breath hot. “You taste like a good girl who needs to come. Can you come like this? Packed to the brim and licked clean?”
She could only moan, her hips trying to chase his mouth. The machine hummed, holding her impossibly deep. Damien’s tongue worked her, expert and relentless, building a cresting wave of pleasure that threatened to drown the pain.
Then, as she teetered on that precipice, he lifted his head. His lips were slick. His steely eyes locked with her glazed ones.
“Now,” he said, the word a soft command.
He nodded to Marcus.
At the same instant his mouth descended again, his tongue spearing into her pussy just as the machine’s gentle vibration turned into a purposeful, hydraulic push.
The toy moved. It didn’t pulse. It advanced.
Through the blinding haze of his tongue fucking her, she felt the relentless inward glide. Six and three-quarters. The burn was astronomical, a scraping, filling agony. He sucked her clit into his mouth, soft and hard all at once.
Seven inches.
The number echoed in the void of her mind as her body experienced it. A total, profound impalement. It felt less like being entered and more like being discovered, a deep, internal chamber she never knew existed now suddenly, definitively, occupied. The slight bulge in her lower abdomen became a distinct, firm mound. She could see it. She could feel it under the skin Damien wasn’t touching.
He released her clit with a soft pop, his chin dripping. He looked up at her, his expression one of pure, professional triumph. “Seven,” he breathed, the word a gift and a verdict. He gave the visible bulge in her belly a soft, proprietary pat. “Told you we’d get here. Look at you. Full of me.”
The machine stopped, holding her at that ultimate depth. The stretch was a permanent, humming note in her body. The lingering, sweet aftershock of his mouth on her warred with the crushing fullness. She was crying again, but silently now, tears carving clean lines through the sweat on her temples.
She was seven inches deep. And she had never felt more completely owned.
“Now,” Damien said, rising to his feet and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a casual, oddly human gesture. “We see how long you can keep it.”