No warning.
No mercy.
No apology.
Just a breathless, filthy laugh that slides over my skin like petrol waiting for a match.
“No,” he says simply. “Not yet.”
I sob into the heavy air of this room—shameless, wrecked, utterly gone.
“That’s right,” he coos, licking his lips slowly like I’m his favourite flavour, like he could feast on my humiliation forever. “Cry for it, shake for it, show me how desperate you are. But if you want to cum, you better start acting like my fucking pet. Say it, Tahlia. Say you’re my good little cumrag and beg me to let you cum.”
It’s there, right there at the edge of my consciousness—white-hot and unforgiving, so close I can taste it, feel it crawling up my spine like it’s going to burst through my skin if I don’t shatterfirst. My thighs are trembling uncontrollably, my core pulsing with a need that borders on pain, every inch of me burning so violently I swear I could scream and shatter the windows.
But then—he stops, pulls away completely.
He fucking stops.
His mouth—gone, leaving only cold air where heat was.
The heat—vanished, leaving only aching emptiness.
The friction, the rhythm, the filthy, sinful descent I’ve been riding with tears streaming down my face—ripped away in cruel silence.
And for one suspended second, I can’t even speak, can’t even process what’s happened.
I just blink up at the ceiling with its ornate cornicing and shadows, the tears clinging to my lashes like glass splinters, and try to understand why the orgasm still hasn’t come, why the world hasn’t cracked open beneath me, why I’m still here—and he’s not touching me, not on me, not doing anything but watching me fall apart.
“No,” I choke, voice broken and desperate. “No, no, no?—”
“Yes,” he says smoothly, the single word somehow more cruel than any blow could be.
That yes—yes to the denial, yes to the punishment, yes to everything I’m begging him not to do—cuts deeper than his hook ever could.
He rises slowly from his position between my thighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like I’m something he’s tasted but hasn’t finished consuming, like there’s more to savour later. His slacks are still open, his cock still thick and hard and glistening in the dim light—and he doesn’t even look at it, doesn’t touch it, doesn’t acknowledge the evidence of his own hard cock.
Just me.
Only me.
Always me.
Like he’s choosing to leave me like this with deliberate cruelty, choosing to let me feel every drip of slick clinging to the inside of my thighs, every pulse of an orgasm stolen before it could bloom, every twitch of a body that obeyed before I ever said yes.
“You don’t get to cum,” he says, his voice low and cold and precise as a scalpel. “Not until you know what it means to beg properly, not until you understand what it means to be owned completely, body and soul.”
I shake my head weakly. “You said?—”
“I said if you begged,” he interrupts, stepping forward and grabbing my jaw with bruising force. “And you haven’t, not really. You whimpered, you cried, you reached for my cock like a greedy little slut—but you never begged. You never broke. You never gave me what I actually want.”
He leans closer, eyes glittering with something sharp and hungry.
“But don’t worry, little fairy. We’re going to fix that before the night is through.”
Then he grabs me with sudden violence, fingers wrapping around my wrists and yanking me upright like I weigh nothing, like I’m a doll to be positioned however he pleases. My knees hit the floor before I even know I’m falling, and he drags me across the room by the throat—not hard enough to choke, just enough to control—and slams me with terrifying gentleness into the cool, mirrored wall beside the bed.
“Look,” he commands.
