“You don’t even know what you’re begging for yet. That’s cute.”
He rocks his hips again, just enough to make me sob into the space between my arms, and my body jolts from the inside out, trying to take more than the restraints allow. I’m clenching down hard now, not from resistance but desperation, and he notices.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s it. You want more? Say it.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Just a noise, guttural and pleading.
“Use your words,” he demands, thrusting again, deeper this time. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I say, voice cracking. “I want you.”
He groans behind me, like the words cost him something, like they snapped whatever control he’d been holding by the throat. His hands grip my hips tighter, dragging me back onto him as he starts to move with more intent, more power, not frantic but no longer careful either.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls. “So tight. So wet. Look at you. I can feel your cunt flutter every time I say your name.”
“You haven’t,” I pant.
“What?”
“You haven’t said my name.”
He laughs again, this time darker, meaner. “You want that too?”
“Yes,” I admit, because I’m past shame, past reason.
“You’ll earn it.”
He angles his hips, thrusts again, and this time it hits something brutal and blinding. My mouth opens in a silent scream before the sound rips out anyway. He does it again, and again, holding me steady while I fall apart under him.
“Oh, she likes that,” he mutters. “You hear yourself?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whimper, the title tumbling out before I can stop it.
“Good girl,” he says, and this time it’s with heat. Approval. Possession.
He moves one hand between my legs, fingers sliding over the slick mess there, finding the spot that’s already pulsing and too sensitive, and presses. I jolt hard. My whole body lifts.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice firm. “Not without permission.”
“I can’t,” I cry. “I can’t hold it?—”
“You will.”
His rhythm changes. Slower. Crueler. The kind of thrusts that go deep enough to knock the wind out of me, followed by soft, teasing touches that make me twitch and beg. My skin feels too tight. My eyes sting. My thighs shake so violently I can’t tell if I’m trying to push away or pull him deeper.
“I’m gonna come,” I plead. “Please—please, I need?—”
“Not yet,” he says again, and this time he sounds closer to the edge than I am.
His grip climbs up my back, strong fingers spreading over my spine, pressing down until I arch for him involuntarily.
“I’m not done using you.”
That shatters something inside me. Not my will—my control.
I fall into the rhythm helplessly, meeting every thrust with what little range the restraints allow. He’s breathing harder now. Grunting under his breath. His body slaps against mine with wet sounds that echo off the walls. Every thrust is sharper. Every sound that leaves him is more desperate.
“You’re doing this to me,” he hisses. “You and this perfect, greedy fucking cunt.”
