I cry out into his mouth, my hips arching off the bed involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he mocks against my lips. “Such a good little slut for me. Is this what you wanted when you were grumbling in my study? You wanted me to remember you were there? To remind you of your purpose?”
His hand leaves my breast and slides down my stomach, his fingers digging into my hip for a moment before sliding through my wetness. I gasp, my head thrashing back on the pillow. He’s barely touching me, and I’m already on the edge.
“So wet,” he snarls, his voice thick with contempt and desire. “Soaked for me. Your body knows its Master, even if your mouth forgets.”
He plunges two fingers inside me without warning. I scream, my back bowing off the bed. It’s not gentle, it’s a claiming. A punishment.
I’m still so sore from how Felice brutality assaulted me with that candlestick, and yet the pain helps. On some level, the pain allows me to balance my guilt and shame.
He pumps his fingers in and out in a ruthless, driving rhythm that steals my breath. The heel of his palm grinds against my clit, the pressure against the delicate piercing an exquisite torture.
“You are mine, Pup,” he growls, his face inches from mine, his eyes holding me captive. “Every sigh, every moan, every orgasm; it all belongs to me.Youbelong to me.”
His words are a dark spell, weaving around me, pulling me deeper into the pleasure and the shame.
With the way his face is scarred, with the way his skin is melted he looks like a very demon from hell devouring me, devouring my soul.
I can’t fight it, I don’t want to fight it.
I have to give in, have to continue allowing my body to submit.
My hips buck against his hand, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, seeking the release that is coiling tight and hot in my belly.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a dark whisper. “Fuck my fingers, you greedy little bitch. Show me how much you need it.”
He adds a third finger, stretching me more, filling me. The sensation is overwhelming. His thumb presses down hard on the diamond piercing on my clit, and a white-hot bolt of pleasure sears through me.
“Master, please…” I beg but in truth, I don’t know what I’m begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop?
“Please what?” he demands, his fingers never slowing their brutal pace. “Tell me.”
“I… I can’t…”
His free hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. A threat, a promise, a claim. The pressure is firm, undeniable. It centres me, focuses all my swirling sensations on that one point of contact. My eyes widen, locked on his.
“Come,” he commands, his voice absolute.
It’s the command, the ownership in that single word that shatters me.
I may have been conditioned, I may have been reprogrammed or whatever the fuck that man called it until my body is no longer truly mine, but in this moment, it doesn’t feel like it’s just a response to my torture. It feels like exactly what it is; me giving Antonio what he wants, me truly submitting.
The orgasm rips through my body with the force of a detonation.
I scream, a raw, ragged sound that tears at my throat as my body convulses around his invading fingers. Pleasure, white and blinding obliterates every thought, every protest, every ounce of my defiance. I am nothing but sensation, a vessel for his will.
He works me through it, his fingers milking every last spasm from me until I’m a trembling, sobbing wreck beneath him. Only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.
I lie there, gasping, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.
I hate him. I hate how he can do this to me.
And I hate how much I didn’t hate it.
He shifts above me, unbuckling his belt, pushing his trousers and boxers down in one rough motion. His cock springs free; thick, hard, and glistening at the tip. He’s enormous, and the sight of him after the intensity of my orgasm sends a fresh thrill of fear through my spent body.
He doesn’t give me time to recover, he flips me over onto my stomach with effortless strength. I gasp into the duvet, trying to push myself up on my weak arms.
