Page 95 of Damsel in Disguise

Alistair drags the sensation out of me by leisurely moving the blunt edge of the pen gripped in my hand against my pussy lips. The cold, sharp edges bite into delicate skin, making a soft moan slip free.

He moves it tauntingly in a side-to-side motion for an excruciating amount of time. The torturous motion is testing my limits—how long I can hold myself together before I break.

My lip finds its way between my teeth, biting down hard enough to ground myself, but it does nothing to steady the way my pulse spirals out of control.

His gaze flickers to my abused bottom lip for a brief second—just enough to take in the effect—before returning to my eyes.

“What do you think others would say if they saw you like this?”

“Y-you’re the one—ahhh…” my voice falters, breaking into a sharp moan when the sensation shifts again, stealing the rest of my words and replacing them with a helpless sound.

“Careful about who you threaten, Ariella,” he says calmly, yet reminding me again who holds the power. “You might be a Keinston, but you’re in my territory now,” his thumb presses against the vein fluttering in my neck.

My mouth falls open to breathe, eyes threaten to fall shut again from the tension building too quickly, too intensely.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

The command cuts through me instantly. I freeze. And then my gaze locks onto his again, unsteady but unwavering this time, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

He watches me for a second longer.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise low and controlled, and finally pushes the pen inside me.

A broken sound chokes out of my throat, my knees threatening to open wider for him, offering more, begging for more as he pushes deeper.

He seats it to the hilt, but not the way I expect. Not the way I want. He angles it so it’s my own hand trapped between us, my palm grinding against my clit instead of his knuckles.

“Now move like you’d ride my cock, little kitty,” he says softly, almost lazily. “Show me how much you crave me.”

The words barely leave his lips before I obey.

I start moving—movement too shameless and desperate for my fragile ego—fucking myself on the cold metal for him.

The chill shocks me at first, a sharp contrast that makes my breath hitch, but it doesn’t last. My body adapts too quickly, heat swallowing the foreign intrusion until it feels like it belongs there.

His hand cages mine against the floor, holding it in place, grounding me, controlling even the angle of my pleasure.

I roll my hips over it, slow at first, then steadier. Slickness gathers, easing the glide, making each drag feel dirtier than the last.

My knees lift and fall with the rhythm, every downward motion grinds my clit hand harder against my hands, every upward pull drags that rough length along my inner walls, making me whimper like his kitten.

My eyes flutter, then roll back completely, but not closing.

It’s not gentle. It’s not meant to be.

There’s a stinging sensation every time I take it in—the faint scrape, the stretch, the almost-pain that keeps catching at the edges of pleasure.

But it never quite tips over into discomfort, never enough to make me stop. Just enough to keep me aware. To keep me right on the edge where it hurts and feels too good, both at the same time.

Alistair doesn’t speak another word, no sound, just the quiet clenching of his jaw, the visible restraint in his eyes, and the subtle tightening of his grip on my hand.

He lets me set my own pace and go at my own pace.

I chase it anyway. Faster now.

A new overflowing feeling of euphoria starts to gather low in my body.

My breathing turns uneven, breaking apart into shallow moans and gasps. I can’t hold it together anymore. The pressure builds low in my stomach, spilling through my veins until I can’t tell where it starts or ends.