Killian catches me, digging his fingers into my arms. He pulls me into him—his wide, firm chest—and leans close to my ear. His voice is low and raspy, a snarl that makes me freeze in place. “Pick up the lube and prepare the bench.”
There’s no threat, just that low command. And it’s more than enough. When he loosens his grip, just holding on enough to steady me, I bend down to pick up the lube, then go to stand beside the bench.
Closing my eyes, I draw a few shuddery breaths that seem to resound through the room with the force of a stuttering engine about to give in.
“Please, Killian,” I beg, but he’s unforgiving. Arms crossed over his chest, stance wide and tall, he’s an impenetrable wall of dominance. He doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his stare is enough.
My shoulders slump in defeat as I pop the tube open and squeeze lube onto the smooth phallus.
“Rub it in,” Killian demands.
My whole body coils tight as I go against all instincts and slide my fingers through the lube, smearing it around the wooden dildo.
“Uh, uh,” Killian admonishes. “Do it like you mean it. Fist and pump it.”
Biting down on my molars, I cover my eyes as if not seeing would make it any better. Then I fold my fingers around the phallus and rub the thing, up and down, twisting my hand from one side to the other. It’s a vulgar display that creates a slick sound. Knowing I’m the one creating it makes me whimper repeatedly, just from the sheer wrongness of it all.
“More lube,” Killian orders, then, “Harder.” He makes me do the exact thing he did that day, only so much worse by letting me do it myself. The phallus is hard and unforgiving in my hand, and the idea of getting impaled on it again has panic creeping along the edges of my brain—a hundred slithering serpents waiting to strike in unison. I’m so damn scared, remembering what happened the last time. But at the same time, the memory is vague, the daze somehow still cushioning the anxiety.
“Enough,” he finally says and comes to stand at my side, rubs my hand with a wet wipe, then grabs my cheeks between his fingers. “Open,” he demands, staring me down, making me feel the height difference acutely.
Tentatively but obediently, I open my mouth. He has me so deep in his grip that I can’t do anything but obey at this point. The fear barely even matters. He’s right. I truly am his puppet on a string. He has eradicated everything in my mind and taken complete utter control.
Pft.
The sound makes me wince just before Killian’s spit hits my tongue. But before disgust or humiliation can overcome me, he delivers another hard command. “Swallow.”
I obey. I swallow his spit while I stare up into his cold blue eyes, cruel and demeaning but so full of steady, all-consuming power. I feel like I’m floating. In a rapid tide that hurls me around, yet never crashes me into the rocks or pulls me under. It just sweeps me away, and all I can do is let go and let it take me.
Killian watches me for a moment, imprinting his authority on me. Then, fingers digging into my jaw, he leans in and kisses me. It’s not sweet or even mutual. His kiss is like everything else he does: harsh and demanding, and so damn world-altering. It takes me for another violent whirl in the current, and when he releases me, I have forgotten where we are and what we’re doing. I don’t think; I just let him lead me around the bench and lower me toward the dildo. With two strong hands gripping my ribs, he determines the pace. Part of me wants to work against him and slow the process, but I’m too far gone, my legs too weak to manage the strength, so I just lean into him and let him bend me to his will. Unlike the last time, he doesn’t go slow. He doesn’t need to. He has prepared me well; I sink onto the phallus without a problem.
It barely takes a minute before I’m in place, the stiff thing seated deep inside me, the bench cold against my ass. But no matter how easily the process went, how obedient I am, the rigid intrusion is overpowering. I start panting and whimpering, squirming with latent panic. And each squirm only worsens the sensation, making me aware of the rigidity and reminding me how stuck I am—how long the phallus is, how long it took to get me off it the last time. The cramps, the panic, the pain.
My vision starts to blur. I press my hands to the bench, trying to push up. But just a little movement sparks a whirl of sensation in my tight opening, overcoming me in a powerful, terrifyingsurge, physical and psychological. It’s too much. I collapse back onto the bench, too weak to go on, too aroused, too scared, too… stuck.
Panic creeps in. I start clawing at the slick wood. But then Killian is there, on the bench with me, legs caging me in, arms banding around me, chest pressing against my back. It’s not exactly a hug. It’s more like a vise. A cage. And it’s just what I need. His power grounds me—shuts down my brain to make room for him.
Tears spring to my eyes. I collapse into him, going slack in every muscle. My head lolls against his shoulder, my legs sliding out to rest limply on the floor. When he pushes a finger between my legs and finds my clit, I release a hoarse cry. The burst of sensation overcomes my body, threatening to overload the system. I start crying, needing the outlet as everything is strung tight, hovering.
Killian starts working his hips against me, slight movements that jostle me against the stiff intrusion in my ass. More sensation, more mind-numbing, paralyzing bursts of electricity. I can’t think, I can’t move. All I can do is sit here and take. The sensations coil and twist, tightening deep in my gut. I jerk from the force of it, spasms making my legs bounce against the floor, bolts making me lurch and catch on the stiff dildo, creating more overpowering sensations.
My moans fill the room, a long cascade only broken off by sniffles and cries.
“Come for me,” Killian whispers, then hardens his voice to a sneer. “Show me what a dirty little ass slut you are and come while you fuck the wooden dildo.”
It’s not his soft whispers that drive me mad with lust. It’s his mocking, vile words that makes me hump the horrible thing, moving up and down with slight motions, grinding against his hand, grinding against the unforgiving stiffness impaling me.
My moans grow longer, my sobs shorter. My feet stiffen against the floor, and every fiber inside me coils tight. With a scream, I lurch over the edge, clawing at Killian’s thighs, dropping my head further back on his shoulder, utterly lost in the mind-numbing ecstasy.
“Killian,” I moan through the last stutters of pleasure. “Killian,” I repeat breathily as I come down. He’s my whole world. Everything I crave, all I’ve ever wanted.
“Hmm,” he hums, gripping me tighter.
Silence descends. My panting is the only sound for a while, but eventually it dies down, leaving the room in a peaceful calm.
I have no idea how long I sit—or hang—here in Killian’s arms. Keeping one arm tight around my waist, he brings his other hand to my forehead, making sure my head doesn’t roll off his shoulder. Every muscle, every joint is loose and slack. I don’t even move a finger. I might even drift off for a while.
Eventually, Killian starts moving. He strokes my hair, rocks me slightly, building awareness in my body and coaxing me back to consciousness.
