Page 48 of Magnum, Volume 1

“Please have mercy! Sir!”

He pumped hard, three times.

“Have you ever known me to show mercy during high-protocol, cunt? Do you really expect me to now?”

He found a rhythm, fucking me deep, hard, and faster than I could handle while I sobbed and cried beneath him, fighting him with everything I could muster.

“Oh yeah, my little weeping fucktoy. That’s what we want.”

He fucked me with deep, brutal strokes that dragged every textured ridge back and forth against the tight ring of muscle. There was no angle that lessened it, no way to adjust. The wedge, and the way he pinned my legs between his kept me exactly where he wanted me. Every thrust forced more broken noises out of me. Tears streamed from my eyes and into the sheet under me. My hole felt like it was being split open on every stroke, raw and burning and impossibly full.

I’d given up the right to make it stop. I was trapped under him with no way out while he used me and hurt me. I could scream and sob and beg until my voice gave out, but I was in this without reprieve until the hour was up or he decided he was finished.

He fucked me like he meant for me to feel it for days, driving into me with powerful, savage thrusts that claimed every inch of me over and over. The endless pain never lessened, it grew sharper and deeper, layering fresh agony on top of what was already there while my muscles clenched and contracted around the thick intrusion it couldn’t expel.

I lost track of time, of reality. There was only the stretch, the burn, the wet sound of him thrusting into me, and the growly, satisfied grunts he made while he used my ass exactly the way he’d promised.

I couldn’t stop begging, but my voice was quieter now. Broken. “Please have mercy, please, it hurts so bad… I can’t… I can’t.”

“Doesn’t matter if you think you can or not, slave. You are.”

I’m pretty sure he used the entire hour, and by the time he started losing his rhythm, there was no fight left in me. The pain was deeper and more pervasive than it’d been at the start, but you can only fight at that level for so long, and my will was long gone. Completely fucked out of me.

I was well and truly broken. Conquered.

I’ve heard people throw around the word ruined, but that was me in that moment – a ruined, wrecked hole. Open, raw, twitching, and so thoroughly used, I wasn’t sure where I ended and the pain began. He drove into me with vicious intent, grinding his textured cock into me even as he came, forcing me a little more open. The sudden heat of him deep inside only made me sob harder.

He stayed buried in me for a long moment afterward, his breathing rough, one hand still pressing me into the mattress.

I lay there under him, arms back out to my side but not straight, legs still pinned, hole stretched obscenely around his cock, and understood exactly why he’d done this.

It was about more than power and control. It was a brutal, visceral lesson in the structure he’d created. Undeniable proof he fully owned me.

He’d had me voluntarily relinquish my safeword, and then he’d taunted me when I tried to use it. How many men would’ve stopped, even after making me give it up?

Most of them.

And I respected the fuck out of him for holding strong, even as my body shook from the sobs racking my body.

And so, I said what he’d wanted from me earlier, or at least some version of it.

“It wasn’t just me who needed it, Sir,” I managed to get out, voice barely more than a whisper. “We needed it. An affirmation of what we are to each other.”

He kissed my shoulder. “What a good little cumhole. Stay put, I need to check you over.”

And why did that nickname make me feel special? Shit, I was way too far into subspace to be expected to think, so I stayed put while he got up, stepped away, and quickly returned.

“Spread your legs, fuckslave.”

I did, and he made what might’ve been a sympathetic sound if it hadn’t carried the icy edge of ownership.

“Fuck. That probably hurts like a motherfucking bitch. This salve is going to feel cold.”

My whines and noises sounded pathetic even to me while he worked salve all around and then inside my raw hole. His hands were neither gentle nor rough, but methodical and… thorough.

I have only fragmented, foggy memories after that: him carrying me to his bedroom, sitting me on the toilet and telling me to pee, drying me with tissue when I finished, then carrying me to bed.

Or, I think that’s what happened. I slept through the night, and woke in his arms the next morning without the waist cincher.