“Stay down,” he orders, his voice a guttural command as his hand slaps my arse hard enough to make his point felt.
He then drapes his body over mine, his chest pressing against my back, pinning me. One hand wraps in my hair again, pulling my head back as the other guides his cock to my entrance.
He’s not gentle. He doesn’t try to prepare me further, he just pushes.
I cry out as he breaches me with a sharp, stretching burn that quickly melts into an overwhelming fullness. He’s so deep. He fills me completely, claiming every inch of me. He stills for a moment, buried to the hilt, his hot breath panting against my ear.
“You feel that?” he whispers, his voice ragged with his own restraint. “That is your place now. That is where you belong. Full of me.”
He sets a furious, punishing pace. He slams into me, each thrust driving me into the mattress, each withdrawal a near-complete loss before he fills me again, brutally, relentlessly. The sound of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin is loud and primal in this luxurious room.
“You are my whore,” he grunts, punctuating each word with a savage thrust. “My beautiful, disobedient, diamond-studded whore.”
His hand leaves my hair and slides around my waist, his fingers finding my oversensitive clit. He rubs hard, rough circles around the piercing, and a broken sob is torn from my throat.
Another orgasm is already building but it’s too soon, too much; it’s a tidal wave of sensation I can’t possibly survive.
“You come for me again,” he orders, his voice thick with his own impending release. “Come on my cock, you filthy slut. Let me feel you.”
He changes his angle slightly and on the next thrust, he hits a spot deep inside me that makes me see stars. I shatter entirely. My second orgasm is a silent, breathless convulsion; a deep, internal clenching that wrings a roar of triumph from him.
He fucks me through it, and it feels like his own control is breaking. His thrusts become erratic, animalistic. He leans over me, his chest plastered to my sweat-slicked back, his mouth against my ear.
“My pet,” he grunts, the absurd, degrading term of endearment shocking me even in my delirious state. “My sweet, tight little bitch. Take it. Take all of me.”
With a final, deep, grinding thrust he buries himself inside me and comes. I feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release filling me, the ultimate mark of his possession. A guttural groan is torn from his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure conquest that seems to shake the very foundations of the room. He collapses his full weight upon me, crushing me into the mattress, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his climax.
We lie there for what feels like an eternity in a tangled, sweaty mess. The only sounds are our ragged, syncing breaths and the frantic hammering of my heart, which I’m certain he can feel through my back. His release is a warm, intimate presence inside me; a final, degrading stamp on my body that proclaims, more than any contract or collar ever could, that I am his.
I hate it, I hate the possessive weight of him.
I hate the way my body still clenches weakly around him, milking the last drops of his pleasure from him as if it’s my sole reason for existing.
Most of all, I hate the treacherous, warm glow that spreads through my limbs in the wake of my own shattering releases, a contented hum that feels like a betrayal of everything I am.
Slowly, carefully he pushes himself up on his arms, lifting his weight from me. The cool air of the room hits my sweat-slicked skin, raising goosebumps. I feel him withdraw from me in a slow, deliberate slide that leaves me feeling empty and used. The physical evidence of our coupling trickles down my inner thigh in a stark, wet reminder.
On some level I can rationalise this, I can define this. It’s survival, nothing more.
Yet the guilt and the shame still churns in my belly. My father’s face seems to appear every time I blink my eyes like some fiendish apparition sent from God himself, and I know I’m being judged. That the weight of my soul is being weighed, and I’ve come up so very short.
A finger touches me, trailing from my shoulder down my arm. I bite my lip, stifling the cry. I need to be smart, so fucking smart. I need to make thisman believe that I want him, no, that I love him. I have to play him better than anyone ever has before. My heart slams into my chest at the notion, because Antonio is the smartest man I’ve ever met. Even when my own parents tried to out manoeuvre him he knew almost instantly, and now we’re all living with the consequences.
“Any regrets?” Antonio asks quietly.
I shake my head. No.
“Do you wish to return to your cage?”
I don’t hesitate, I don’t overthink it. I turn quickly, fully facing him with all the strength I can muster. “I want to stay with you.” I state, repeating the same sentiment I declared earlier.
He hooks a finger under my chin, and his touch is not gentle. It’s a demand. “You have given me your body, but that is a small thing. A woman’s body is easily taken. Loyalty, true loyalty, that must be given, and it must be proven.”
A cold knot tightens in my stomach. I thought this was the proof. “I, I have proven it,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
A slow, cruel smile touches his lips. “No, Pup. You have only warmed up.” He releases my chin and gestures for me to get fully up. “Come. It is time for you to prove it with more than just your cunt.”
The vulgarity is a slap. It strips away any last pretence of intimacy, reducing what just happened to its basest transaction. I feel a hot flush of shame, but I smother it because shame is a luxury I cannot afford.
