He kissed the small of my back. Licked the oil and the sweat from my skin.
He turned me again, so I was on my back, the plug in me, legs wide.
He looked at me, opened for him.
He said, “Perfect. Beautiful.”
He knelt above me, his cock in his hand, the head wet, the length of him flushed dark and bronze.
He lined himself up at my pussy.
He pressed in by degrees, the width of him driving the plug deeper, and I moaned, a high, ragged noise I had not known I could make.
He fucked me deeply and deliberately, the fullness in my cunt and my ass meeting, multiplying. He held my jaw as he did it, the thumb at my lips, forcing my mouth open for his tongue. He kissed me, rough and possessive.
The bond at my wrist was a live wire, the mark at my breastbone an ember.
He fucked me, and I took it, and every thrust pushed the plug harder, and every clench of my muscles made him groan, and the feeling was so intense, so complete, I thought I might never stop coming.
He let me, when the time was right, he let me come on his cock, then pulled out, and knelt at my ass, and removed the plug.
He spread me carefully, so I could feel the air, the want, the absence.
He lined up at my ass.
He said, “Will you let me in, precious one?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please. Please fuck me there, please—”
He pressed.
The head went in, the pressure intense, but I was so slick, so open, that the pain was gone, replaced by a wild, raw pleasure. He pushed deeper, then pulled back, then deeper again, stretching me with every stroke.
He held my hips, anchoring me, the grip so firm it left marks.
He fucked me, steady, deep, every inch of him a new promise, a new claim.
I could feel everything: the fullness, the slide, the steady work of him opening me for more. I wanted it. I needed it.
I said, “Harder,” and he obliged, picking up the rhythm, slamming into me, filling me.
I said, “Faster,” and he did, the sound of it echoing off the walls, the smell of sex and sweat and oil everywhere.
I said, “I deserve it. I deserve everything.”
And the bond at my wrist went nova, the light spilling out of me, into the room, into the cracks at his jaw, his throat, his hands.
I came, so hard it went white.
He fucked me through it without breaking rhythm, the whole of him in me, the fullness at the edge of pain and pleasure, and as I peaked, he came, too.
The heat of it. The fill. The knowing that it was not just a body, not just a fuck, but a contract, a promise, a vow to never, ever, be anything but wanted again.
He let go my hips, and I collapsed onto the bed, ass in the air, forehead to the blanket. He draped his body over mine, the sweat of him mixing with the sweat of me.
He whispered, “You are my queen.”
I whispered, “And you are my king.”
