I don’t move, some last vestige of defiance keeping my feet planted on the expensive rug.
His mouth curls into something that might be a smile if smiles could cut, cruel and knowing and infinitely patient.
“I won’t say it again.”
So I go, legs carrying me across the room because I hate him, because I hate myself more, because I need something I can’t even name.
I just know my legs carry me back to the mattress with its rumpled silk sheets and scattered pillows, and when I reach it, he’s already behind me, already pushing me forward with one hand between my shoulder blades until I’m on my back again, legs falling open instinctively, shamefully, knickers still clinging to the slick evidence of my arousal.
He kneels at the edge of the bed with the reverence of a penitent at an altar, except there’s nothing holy about the hunger in his eyes.
Right there, positioned between my spread thighs like this is worship and punishment and possession all at once.
When he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my knickers and drags the fabric down, he does it slowly, torturously, like he wants to savour the wet sound of my humiliation as the cotton peels away from my skin with a soft, damning noise that fills the quiet room.
Then his breath hits me—hot and close and dangerous, fanning across sensitive flesh that’s already too warm, too needy.
“No touching,” he murmurs, pressing one hand flat on my stomach to hold me down, his palm burning through my skin like a brand. “No begging. No lies. You’ll take what I give you, and nothing more.”
Then he leans in, and his tongue drags hot and slow through my slick folds like he’s tasting a lie I didn’t mean to tell, like he’s memorising the flavour of my shame.
I arch instinctively, hips lifting towards his mouth.
He pins me harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my stomach.
“Stay down,” he growls, the command vibrating against my sensitive skin. “Don’t you fucking move.”
He does it again—tongue dragging through me with deliberate slowness, learning every fold and ridge and secret place before pausing, pulling back just enough to make me whimper at the loss.
Like he’s learning me, mapping me, memorising the way my thighs twitch when he swirls his tongue just under the hood of my clit—then pulls back cruelly before the pleasure can crest into something unbearable.
“I want to feel you shake,” he murmurs, voice thick with filth and promise. “But you’re not going to cum, not until you learn to ask properly, not until that pride breaks and you beg me like the desperate little slut you are.”
He keeps going, tongue punishing and slow and relentless in its measured cruelty, fingers digging into my hips when I try to move, when I whimper, when I pant, when my body begs without words because my mouth refuses to give him what he wants.
“Poor little fairy,” he croons between licks, the condescension dripping from every syllable. “So desperate, so wet, cunt clenching around nothing. But still too proud to beg for a single fucking thing.”
My hands fist the silk sheets until I hear threads pop, my jaw locks tight enough to ache, my thighs tremble with the effort of holding still under his relentless attention.
I’m close—so close it hurts, so close the edges of my vision blur and my breathing turns ragged.
And he knows, because he stops with the precision of a man who’s made a study of denial.
Pulls back slowly, deliberately.
Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, my arousal glistening on his lips in the dim light.
Then smirks, and it’s the cruellest expression I’ve ever seen.
“Say thank you.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first, the words caught somewhere between my pride and my need.
The heat is still there, low and molten and throbbing deep in my core, my clit still slick from his tongue, still aching for the release he’s dangled just out of reach. My body twitches with the phantom memory of pleasure that was ripped away before it could bloom into something devastating.
The ache isn’t just between my thighs now—it’s in my teeth, clenched so hard my jaw aches, in my chest where my heart pounds against my ribs, in my fingertips that tingle with frustrated need. I’m shaking and half-sobbing and I hate howmuch I want him to keep going, hate it more than I’ve ever hated anything in my miserable life.
I want it.
