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I gave a strangled cry, barely muffled by his pillow. His scent was fucking with my head again, making it hard to remember where the line between pain and pleasure really was, but I was pretty sure I was fucking close.
Castor’s nails bit into my hips, and if it wasn’t my imagination, they felt longer. Sharper. He started to thrust, even though he wasn't much more than halfway in as far as I could tell. Then again, I really wasn't a good judge of that because everything hurt. Every breath I took, every surge of his hips into me, it was all a strange concoction of bliss and agony. What started as a sharp, piercing pain had grown dull and achy, though, which was at least somewhat more tolerable.
He ignored me, his thrusts growing faster and harder along with his breathing. The pain hadn't exactly subsided, but with each thrust driving the crown of his cock into my prostate even harder than his fingers had, the commensurate pleasure made it easier to bear.
Eventually, his skill tipped the balance and I started enjoying it more than not, even if it was definitely rougher than it had been during my rut. Then again,hewas being rougher, too. Nonetheless, I found myself bucking into him again, my stiff cock slapping against my lower abdomen each time he drove into me.
Castor lowered his body onto mine as he gripped a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. I braced myself for him to bite, but instead, he ran his tongue up along my jugular as if to prove me wrong.
I let out a rush of breath that sounded suspiciously like his name. When he did bite down between my neck and shoulder, the pain only spiked my arousal. He hadn’t broken the skin, but he’d come close, and my cock twitched in response. I arched into him even though my ass ached in protest, because the sensation of him biting me from behind had unlocked some deep, primal longing.
"You know, you make a better fucktoy than a hunter," he taunted right next to my ear, his smooth cheek rubbing against the stubble along my jaw.
"Is that supposed to be an insult?" I asked, my voice strained. "Because if I had to pick a vocation at the moment, it would be the former."
He just scoffed. "You're pathetic." The barb was laced with strange affection that soothed the needy creature within me that was so desperate for his approval.
He thrust into me harder and I let out a yelp that definitely didn't help to dispel his point. Tears stung my eyes, but each time I considered begging for mercy, he would do something that made my toes curl and my cock weep precome.
"Castor," I moaned, assuming it was safe to call him that, given the circumstances. He was in so deep, but I craved even more. I had never imagined I would want to fuck a guy, let alone if I was on this end of the equation, but here I was, humping his fucking pillow desperately as he railed me from behind.
"Fuck," he growled, his voice husky and raw with desire. Even if it did feel blindingly good once I had adjusted to his length, at least as much as I could, I would've craved the connection for the fact that it was reassurance he wanted me. That I had something to offer him beyond obedience, even if that was part of it, too. If hurting me brought him pleasure, then pain became my greatest desire.
I was already so close to coming, and the only thing that held me back was the knowledge that he hadn’t given me permission.
I really was sick in the head. A trained pet through and through. But I couldn't bring myself to regret it. From the collar around my neck to the fact that I literally came when he said I could, and only when, I had not only grown accustomed to my subjugation—I had come to enjoy it.
Even if all I got in return was his spite.
To my amazement, Castor reached around to take my cock in his hand, and even though that, too, was rough and careless, I was surprised he cared if I enjoyed this at all. I wasn’t in rut, so there was no practical benefit to pleasuring me, and it was clear I was just an outlet to take out his aggression on.
Having him inside me, ramming into my prostate each time he thrust even though it seemed to be more of a happy accident than anything intentional, was already enough to have me on the edge. Three strokes and I was over it. I was sure he would taunt me about that, too, but instead, he released my cock and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist, his teeth sinking into the back of my neck again as his thrusting turned frantic.
I gave another muffled cry of pain and delight as I tore right before he came, filling me with wave after wave of hot, pulsing come.
I groaned, trembling violently from both the orgasm and the brutality. From the adrenaline of the moment, and the thrill of being the object of his fixation, even if it was only temporary. Even if it was only because he hated me.
Castor collapsed on top of me, gasping. His cock was still twitching inside me, and I could feel his pulse hammering against mine. For a few moments, neither of us said a word. With the shift in angle, having him inside me was almost torturous even as his cock grew soft. When he finally pulled out, that brought its own form of distress.
I whimpered, only then realizing that his pillow was soaked because of the tears coursing down my cheeks. I wasn't even sure why I was crying. It was all too much. It felt too good, and it hurt too much, and everything was a blur of confusion and longing. I felt at once despised and cherished, degraded and powerful.
The scales tipped once more, this time on the side of degradation, as he got out of bed while I was still catching my breath and grabbed a hand towel out of the bedside table to wipe the come off his cock. He froze, looking down at the blood on the towel, then back at me.
"You're bleeding," Castor said, as if he had just noticed. For the first time, a note of concern ebbed into his tone.
"I'm fine," I mumbled, wanting to get myself together before I met his eyes, which was going to be more difficult now than ever.
It wasn't that getting fucked itself was embarrassing. I certainly hadn’t felt that way before, but something about the way he had fucked me this time left me feeling used and hollow. In the moment, I had been too absorbed in the heady bliss of his attention, however malevolent, to be bothered by it—but now that the high of orgasm was fading and the cold reality was setting in, all the questions came.
What was I to him?
Was this just a game?
Did he feel even a fraction of what I felt when he touched me? Was there also a part of him that got left behind?
"Are you crying?"
"No," I snapped, sitting up and immediately regretting it as a sharp pain shot through my abused ass. I ignored the discomfort and reached for my clothes on the floor, feeling a fresh surge of panic because I knew I was moments away from breaking down in front of him, and who even fucking knew why?
