She whimpers—and it’s real. The kind of noise that cracks something open deep inside her. Not pain. Not pleasure. That twisted place where the two bleed into each other until you can’t tell the difference.
I pin her thighs down with my knees. Lean closer. My mouth hovers over hers, not kissing, just claiming space.
“Tell me what you are.”
Her body writhes beneath mine, ruined, desperate, hungry.
“I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” she chokes out again, louder now, voice breaking.
I still don’t let her cum.
Instead, I slide my fingers back inside her and bring her close—so close she’s trembling, begging with her eyes, lips moving without words—and then I stop. Again. Like I’m training a fucking Pavlovian doll to understand: pleasure is mine to give. Not hers to take.
I lean in and whisper, filth coating every syllable like poison sugar:
“Say thank you.”
She hesitates, trembling on the edge.
And I wait.
Because that’s what control is—not just breaking her. But watching her crawl through the glass to beg for the cut.
She says it.
Quietly at first. The kind of thank you that tastes like broken glass and pride swallowed in blood.
“Thank you.”
Not enough.
Not even close.
I grip her throat—not to hurt, not yet—but to feel the vibration of her submission when I demand, “Again.”
She gasps beneath my palm, pupils dilating until her green eyes turn pitch with fury and desperation, a feral kind of surrender that would make lesser men flinch. But I don’t flinch.
I inhale it.
I feed on it.
“I said again, little star.”
“Thank you,” she spits—spits—because even her surrender is warpaint. Even when she begs, she’s trying to bite. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
My cock is throbbing now, full and dark with the need to finally ruin her, to make her body forget how to function without mine. And so I do.
I push in.
Not gently. Not slowly. Not some fabricated fantasy of love.
This is conquest. This is war.
She gasps like I’ve gutted her.
