“We should. Any ideas?”
Killian’s smile is palpable when he asks me, “Do you still hate Bach?”
I nod, smiling against him, loving that he remembers how I complained to my friends when my piano teacher had me playing Bach. Killian would always mock me when he overheard my complaints, but I held firm. I’ve never cared for his music.
“Blasphemy,” Ian says with a huff, but agrees. “Well, Bach it is.”
Ian grabs my shoulders and turns me around, levelling me with a serious gaze, “Anytime you say Bach, we will stop whatever we’re doing. It doesn’t matter what or why, we’ll stop. Okay?”
“I trust you,” I say, knowing I won’t ever need that word when Ian is here.
“And I trust you to let me know if I ever misread you and am about to cross a line. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good girl. Now step in front of the bench.”
Leaning into their steadying grips, I move in front of the bench and let them lower me toward it until the phallus is prodding against my narrow opening.
Pausing, Ian leans close to my ear. “But don’t ever misuse your safeword. The consequences will be dire.”
Gulping, I nod. I would never misuse this safety line they have granted me. But it’s not because I fear the consequences—part of me is curious about what type of sadistic punishment Ian would come up with—it’s because I can’t bear to disobey these two men who hold me so deep in their clutches that submission becomes like breathing.
“Good girl,” Killian croons with the same affectionate tone Ian always uses. Hearing those words spoken with such sincerity on Killian’s lips sends a sharp surge of emotion through me. I shoot my hand out to grab onto him, needing to feel him, that this is for real.
“Uh,” I groan when the phallus breaches my opening, stiff and unforgiving. It stirs all kinds of memories, good and bad. Mostly overwhelming. Having no idea which type to linger on, I focus on Killian instead. I clutch his arm, feeling his biceps tighten as they lower me into place. He’s so strong, the effort of keeping me suspended seems like nothing to him. So much control—mentally and physically. It makes me sink deeper.
They take their time lowering me into place. I think it’s to make mefeelit—the helplessness and the phallus going inside me, one slow increment at a time.
“T-too much,” I groan, the stiff feeling no less ruthless even though I’ve felt it twice before.
“Just right,” Ian croons, stroking my back soothingly.
“Nh,” I protest, leaning into his touch, soaking up his comfort, letting it balance the brutal invasion of my body.
I’m panting hard when they finally release me, seated on the bench, rooted in place. I have no idea how I’m supposed to play. My whole body is thrumming with an intense energy that is both unbearable and so damn addictive.
Ian prods a finger between my legs. “Are you wet?” he asks, a rhetorical question.
Killian slaps my thighs apart, and Ian slips a finger deep inside my pussy. I squirm, embarrassment coursing through me at the feeling of how easily he goes, my dripping wet pussy eagerly inviting him inside. New sensations spark, adding fire to the already burning hot sensation at my core.
Ian tuts. “Such a dirty little girl. Now my finger is soaked.”
“I need more,” I groan when he pulls out.
Ian grabs my hair and pulls my head back, spearing me with a demanding stare. “Is that something you decide? When you get more?”
“N-no.”
“No, it isn’t. You only get more when we decide it’s time. And now, I want to hear the piece you’ve been keeping from me.”
“I can’t play like this.”
Killian wraps his hand around my throat, leaning in. “That’s a lie, Kitten,” he says with deceptive softness.
“No, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry,” I pant. “Plea—”
Ian cuts off my plea by shoving his wet digit inside my mouth. I think I sense something unspoken passing between the two men, but I can’t really tell. Pinned in place by their hands, I can’t turn my head to look, and I’m too overcome by the musky taste of my own desire and the unforgiving stiffness inside me to focus.
