With hunger that matches my own, with something primitive and claiming that makes my stomach clench with equal parts fear and anticipation.
He still doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t give me permission or prohibition.
Not as I fumble with the zipper with trembling fingers.
Not as I slide my hand inside the silk lining of his trousers and wrap my fingers around the hardest fucking cock I’ve ever felt—hot and thick and angry, pulsing against my palm like it has its own heartbeat.
Hot enough to burn.
Thick enough to make me wonder if I could even take it.
Angry in a way that promises retribution.
Mine, for just a second, for this stolen moment where I pretend I have any power at all.
I stroke him once—slow, tentative, testing the weight and heat of him, watching his face for any sign of what’s coming.
Like I want to see how deep I can fall before I hit the floor and shatter completely.
And when he groans—low, deep, sharp enough to slice through bone and reason—I feel it reverberate through my own body.
The shift in the air, charged now with violence barely contained.
The snap of whatever leash he’d been holding himself on.
The unravelling of the control he’s maintained all evening.
Then he moves with a speed that steals my breath.
Fast.
Violent.
His hand grabs my wrist, fingers circling the delicate bones there with bruising force.
Wrenches it away from his cock with enough force to make my shoulder twinge.
And then he’s on me, dragging me by the throat back down onto the mattress, his body looming over mine like the fucking executioner come to deliver judgement, his cock still hanging heavy and hard from his opened trousers as he glares down at me like I’ve just committed the worst possible sin.
But he’s smiling through it—that sick, dark, feral smile that promises terrible things.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you, little fairy?”
He presses his cock between my thighs—not inside, not yet, never that merciful. Just enough for me to feel the searing heat of it against my slick folds, the throb of it, the punishment waiting in those inches that separate us.
“You’re going to fucking pay for that.”
His hand doesn’t just hold me down—it owns me, pressed to the mattress like I’m nothing but a body to be used, to be positioned however he pleases.
I’m spread wide beneath him with my thighs trembling from exhaustion and arousal, my mouth parted around gasps I can’t control, my breath hitching like I’ve forgotten how to breathe around the weight of what I just did, the line I just crossed.
His cock is pressed against my soaked cunt—hot and throbbing and cruel in its proximity.
Not inside because that would be too kind, too easy, too much of a reward for my disobedience and there’s nothing kind about him, nothing easy about the way he toys with me.
“You’re dripping,” he whispers, his voice curling around my ear like a razor wrapped in velvet, each word a caress and a threat. “Look at you—fucking soaking for me after I told you not to touch, after I gave you explicit instructions that you couldn’t follow for even five minutes.”
I try to turn my face away, to hide the flush spreading across my cheeks, the shame written in every line of my expression.
