Page 98 of Somno Slave

His fingers curl around my skull and he holds me still like I’m just something to use. Then he thrusts slowly at first like he’s testing how much I’m willing to give him.

Too much.

I panic.

Too big.

My shoulders tense, a weak, involuntary pull away that doesn’t go anywhere.

My chest strains for air, shallow, uneven, like it can’t tell what it’s supposed to prioritise, air or him. It doesn’t ease.

He slams it against the back of my throat and tears sting at the corner of my eyes. The thought keeps circling, louder now, more frantic beneath everything else,

“Good girl,” his voice is as smooth as velvet, and it settles something I really wish it didn’t. His praise awakens something primal. I hollow my cheeks again, squeezing him tightly. He groans and it’s like a reward. I ache between my legs. The panic, this overwhelm, I hate that it sharpens into desperation.

My head finally moves, and I thrust against him. His grip tightens, and my head throbs painfully.

“Fuck, Rheda,” a low sound tears from him, rough and unrestrained.

The moment hits hard, abrupt. Heat, salt, the sharp intrusion of it forcing a reaction from my body before my mind can even catch up. My throat tightens instinctively, breath catching, everything stuttering into something disjointed and wrong. My fingers sink into the back of his legs, and I do the only thing I can do. I hold on tightly.

My mouth fills, warm.

“Swallow it,” the command lands hard in my mind.

For a second, I can’t.

My body refuses, locked in place, heat flooding my face as everything inside me stutters and spirals out of control. Panic claws its way up, sharp and immediate.

His hand tightens against my skull. “Swallow.”

The word changes, loses whatever it was before, flattening into something colder. It presses in on me, heavy and absolute, leaving no space for hesitation.

I do as I’m told. My throat constricts. His heat splashes the back of my throat and drops down my gullet, slowly at first, but then something takes over me. A frenzy. It knocks me sideways, my throat moving on autopilot, gulping down every last drop like it’s the last liquid on earth. My eyes prick. My nose burns from the backdrop from being upside down. Everything is hot, too swollen, too much. And yet, I don’t stop. I keep drinking it in until he’s done with me.

He pulls back. Air tears into my lungs like I’ve been held under for too long. I don’t breathe so much asdrag it in, sharp and desperate, chest heaving against something that still feels too tight, too full. The force of it makes my vision flare white at the edges, light bursting behind my eyes as if something inside my skull has cracked open.

He looks at me like he’s taking something apart, slow and deliberate, his gaze dragging over my mouth as if there’s something there worth studying.

“Look at you,” his words are almost amused. “All that discipline... and this is what you do with it.”

It shouldn’t land. It shouldn’t get under my skin the way it does—but it does. It sinks, settles, curls somewhere deep where I can’t immediately reach it.

He steps closer.

His hand lifts, hovering near my jaw without quite touching. The space between us narrows until it feels thin, like it might give way if either of us shifts the wrong way.

I can feel it before it happens.

The intent.

The way he leans in, gradual, controlled, close enough that my body reacts before my mind can catch up—heat rising, breath catching, something tightening low in my stomach that feels dangerously like anticipation.

For a second—just one—I think he’s going to kiss me. My ribs feel too small for my lungs. And then, just as he’s about to make contact, he pulls back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Doctor.” He whispers, the words brushing against my skull as a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He steps out of my eyeline. The room becomes a couple degrees colder as something shifts.