The way my mouth parts in need.
The way my reflection begs louder than I ever did.
He grabs the leash—still attached to my collar, still stained with spit and sweat and blood—and yanks it gently.
Just enough to tip my head back.
Just enough to make the mirror show everything.
“You’ll feel me,” he murmurs, the head of his cock pressing at my entrance, “but you won’t cum. Not until you stop looking away.”
I nod.
He slides in.
Slow.
So slow it hurts.
So deep it steals my voice.
He fucks me like a prayer he doesn’t want answered. Long strokes. Deep and precise. Rolling his hips until I feel it everywhere.
My thighs quake.
I cry out.
He reaches forward, yanks my hair back so my reflection can’t escape.
“Say what you see.”
“Me—” I gasp.
“Again.” He pulls out. Slams in.
“Me!”
“What are you?” he growls.
His cock presses against my cervix.
His thumb circles my clit just once—just once—and I almost lose it.
“Yours,” I sob. “I’m yours—please?—”
He stops.
Still inside.
“No.”
He pulls out completely.
I scream into the sheets.
He slaps my ass, hard enough to leave a handprint over the bruises from last night.
“Not yet, little moth. You’re not begging, right. You’re still watching her like she’s a stranger.” And he leans in—voice velvet and venom. “You don’t cum until you love her.”
