Chapter 36
The Reenactment
Killian
After setting the timers, I remove the chain from the wrist cuffs and help Jenna onto the toilet. Then I leave to go play the piano while I wait.
But when I sit down at the piano, I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting to Jenna and the way she suddenly went into subspace—like the flick of a switch. From one moment to the next, she went limp, and when I leaned over her to get a good look at her face, she looked calm. Almost peaceful.
The peace didn’t last, of course, but the submissive haze did. I had only planned on giving her two syringes since it was her first time, but then I wanted to see how far I could take her—whether she would stay in that space or panic.
I was surprised when she remained in a daze, obeying whenever I sharpened my tone. Honestly, I marveled when she asked me for that third syringe. A fourth syringe was only an empty threat to test the strength of her tranquil submission. But even that didn’t break her into panic. She openly obeyed.
I’ve never cared much about whether the girls I play with go into subspace, but seeing Jenna like that, giving in to my will despite what I’ve done to her, did strange things to me I can’t quite explain.
As I sit here, going over the scene in my head, I consider my next step.
Part of me wants to keep her in subspace, pliant and obedient, and see what kind of things that state will allow me to do.
But another part wants to debase and hurt her—make her scream and cry.
Not just quiet tears like in the bathroom, but real, desperate ones.
A little disturbed by my reaction, I decide to keep her in subspace when I return to her half an hour later.
Jenna is sitting on the floor, eyes unfocused and glazed over. She seems to still be deep in subspace, staggering and shuffling when I help her up and guide her across the landing. At first, I’m aiming for my BDSM room—what used to be my gaming room—but halfway there, another urge tugs at me.
I want to relive that first night with her. I want her bent over my piano again, gagged and bound, while I stuff her ass and come all over her. I want her crying when she leaves my room, just like that first time. So that’s the room I take her to.
“Stay,” I say, releasing her just inside the door. When she makes no move to disobey, I leave her side to shut the lid on the piano and move the bench to the side of the instrument. “Up,” I tell her, patting the soft surface.
She obeys with slow and staggered movements, and I take her arm in a supportive grip as she climbs onto the bench.
I almost expect her to go into a fit of panic when I press her down over the surface the same way I did all those years ago, but she just relaxes into the position—like clay in my hands.
“Stay,” I say again, though not really worried she’d go anywhere. I’m about to leave the room to get restraints when she speaks.
“Killian,” she says in a very soft voice.
“Yes,” I reply with a twinge of annoyance.
“You scare me.” There’s so much vulnerability in her voice that it makes me pause.
Stunned, I just watch her for a second. Then I step close again and lean in over her. “I know. That’s just the way I want it.”
“No, not like that. That too. But…” She draws a shuddery breath. “Because of the way you make me feel.”
Shit. Her words crack something inside me. I don’t know what happens. Part of me wants to reject her and turn this into an opportunity to humiliate her, but instead, I softly caress her side and ask, “How do I make you feel?”
She draws a sharp inhale through her nose, and I feel her back shaking beneath me. On her exhale, she releases her answer. One simple word. “Alive.”
Her response hits deep. I draw a shuddery breath of my own as I lean my head against her back, listening to her heartbeat.
I feel her answer deep inside me, and at that moment, there’s a rush of clarity.
Of resonance. She makes me feel the exact same way.
Always has. Whether it was showing her a little bird I had found, belittling her, listening to her playing and knowing I had to up my game to beat her, or taking her pleasure before breaking her into little pieces.
Being close to her always made me feel alive.
Still does. It’s like I can breathe a little freer.
Dad is right. I need her to truly play. But I’m not going to admit that.
Not to him, not to her. So I simply press a kiss to her shoulder and slowly pull away.
Jenna is in the exact same spot when I get back with an armful of toys, only now she’s shuddering. Small sniffles reveal that she’s crying. I lean over the piano to see her face. Her right cheek is resting on the lid, and little pools of tears gleam on the shiny surface.
I brush a few strands of hair from her face and ask softly, “Would you like me to repeat that night—five years ago?”
Brows drawing tight with distress, she focuses on me.
“Would you like to experience it all over again? This time, knowing I’m not sending you away—only downstairs. You’ll get to come up here again. Soon.”
Her eyes scan my face, a whole slew of emotions crossing her face in a flash of worry, anger, and desire.
She closes her eyes, and I hold my breath as I wait for an answer.
I’m not sure what I’ll do if she says no.
Maybe do it all anyway and punish her for refusing me.
That’s what I should do, but at this very moment, seeing her tears and feeling her trust while she floats deep in subspace, I can’t bear it.
I think I just might let her go if she says no.
Vulnerability shines in her eyes when she opens them again. But that vulnerability is not the weakness I always mistook it for. Staring at me, she parts her lips and says with startling clarity, “Yes.”
I just watch her, stunned, in awe, and maybe a bit angry that she surprises me like this.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach for the gag in the pile of toys I placed on the lid. “Open your mouth. Let me gag you and take away your right to say no.”
She breathes hard, more tears flowing down her cheeks, sniffling repeatedly. But there’s resignation in her eyes, and after a few seconds, she parts her lips. Just a smidgen. Then a little more. And finally, she opens up fully.
“Shit,” I mutter. I can’t believe it. She’s actually letting me do this to her again—without protest or pressure.
Just… willingly. For a moment, I want to belittle her for her stupidity, but again, I don’t find her stupid at all.
When she holds her mouth wide open as I push the red ball between her teeth, I find her brave.
Unlike me. I hide inside a shell. For years, I’ve been denying myself the one thing I want, refusing to seek out Jenna even when Dad kept pressing me.
But now that she’s here, she embraces her desires despite the damage it might cause.
She risks it all to feel something. To be alive.
Regret, anger at myself, guilt, and a big cocktail of other emotions rise to the surface with a rapid surge. I don’t want to face it. So I turn it into power. Cold, ruthless power.
I buckle the strap behind her head, then grab a fistful of her hair and lean into her face. “Dirty. Little. Girl,” I taunt, then spit. Right between her eyes.
She starts weeping, and my cock grows achingly hard inside my pants.
Because it was already getting there, just by watching her.
It angers me, and I make quick work to put a collar on her neck, pull ropes through the wrist cuff rings, and fasten them to the piano legs on the other side of the instrument.
“You’re asking me to break you,” I taunt.
She weeps harder, but she sticks her hips out when I push a hand between her legs to feel her pussy.
“You have so little self-worth that you willingly came here to be my slut.”
A desperate sob tears through her at those last words, and I think I’ve crossed a line.
I’m not eager to fix it with soft words, so instead, I shift direction, remembering what Dad said about her abandonment issues—what he said that night when I put a collar on her throat.
Make her feel that she’s owned. Jenna doesn’t need her self-worth.
What she needs is to belong. To be owned.
And that’s something I can give her without crossing my own boundaries.
“It doesn’t matter how you see yourself,” I say to get her back on track, pliable and accepting.
“All that matters is what I see. What I put inside you. You’re mine, Jenna.
Through and through. I own you. Your body, your mind, and the very air you breathe.
That’s all you are. That’s all that matters. ”
Jenna’s sobs calm to the steady flow from before, and her back goes slack, little by little, making her butt jut out.
But she’s not the only one affected by my words.
My cock is aching. I almost can’t stand it.
I want to own her. Every little piece of her.
And I’m starting by claiming her virgin ass.
I don’t care to draw out―I’ve had enough fucking waiting since she came here―so I grab the lube and squeeze a generous amount between her ass cheeks.
“Mine,” I growl, slipping my cock into the moisture and positioning it at her opening. “It’s all you are.” I fist her hair, making her whimper around the gag, and then I start pushing. “My toy. My ass slut. Mine.” She melts with each word of possession, her muscles loosening, inviting me in.
Groaning, I stretch her tight little hole.
I knew it would feel good, but nothing could have prepared me for the mind-numbing pleasure that consumes me as I push inside her for the very first time.
I’ve been dreaming about this for years in the hidden recesses of my mind, and it’s everything and more than I could have imagined. Fuck, it scares me.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” I groan as I sink in to the hilt.