Chapter 46
The Bench
Jenna
My every muscle coils tight when Killian steers me into the room, but instead of heading for the horrible piano bench, he brings me to the regular one at the side of the piano.
Like he did that first night and has done several times after, he helps me up on my knees and makes me lean over the closed lid.
Then he starts preparing my ass. Latex gloves snap, lube trickles between my ass cheeks, and Killian invades that very intimate opening.
I can’t resist the burning desire to succumb—to his power and to the maddening sensation of his finger working against all those sensitive nerves.
I let myself go, forgetting about the bench awaiting me as I moan and buck in open invitation, relaxing my muscles, letting Killian push all the way inside.
One finger. Two fingers. And finally, three fingers.
“Fuck, Jenna, you’re like a cat in heat,” Killian growls when he sinks that final digit in place, making me whimper with urgency, overcome by the tight stretch. “Three fingers, that’s how much I have inside your ass. That wooden dildo is gonna slide right in.”
“No,” I protest, but it’s half-hearted. The idea of the terrible, stiff phallus is only a vague threat in the whirlwind of desire that has taken over my mind.
“Oh, yes.” He pulls out, and the latex snaps again as he removes the glove and throws it away.
Then he pushes one long digit inside my unused pussy, drawing a long moan of desperate desire from me.
“You’re so fucking wet I don’t even need lube.
I could simply have you fucking your own pussy on the dildo before I force your ass onto it. ”
“Please don’t,” I gasp, but I’m not sure I truly mean it. It’s more a reaction to his mocking tone. Because the idea of having anything inside that opening has me panting and squirming shamelessly.
He pulls me to my feet, turning me to him.
“Open,” he demands, grabbing my hair and leaning in.
Before I can realize what he means, he pushes his wet finger against my lips, straight into my mouth.
I try to pull away, but Killian just tightens his grip on my hair, easily immobilizing me as he rubs, turns, and twists his finger, coating my tongue in the musky taste of my desire.
“It’s a shame Dad wants to keep you a virgin or I’d stuff a dildo inside your slick pussy and have you lick it clean.” He pulls out and inserts his finger into my pussy. “We’ll just have to do it like this instead.”
I clench my teeth when he prods his finger, once again slick with my juices, against my lips.
He gives my head a shake. “Open,” he demands with that reverberating authority that spears straight through my autonomy. My lips part, my jaw goes slack. My mouth opens, and I groan and wince as Killian once again feeds me my own juices.
He keeps going, over and over, until my brain is a muddled mess. No thoughts, no modesty. He has wiped it all away, leaving me a needy creature that obeys without hesitation.
When he finally helps me off the bench, I can barely stand. My legs are weak, my balance off, and I’m so goddamn desperate for release that I can’t focus on anything else.
“It’s time,” Killian announces, steering me around the piano.
A stab of panic goes through my brain. The haze dulls it somewhat, but as Killian just holds me there, forcing me to face the bench, memories come rushing, blurry but potent, breaking up the fog. My heart starts pounding and my palms become sweaty.
Killian reaches for something on the piano and places it in my hand. It’s not until he speaks that I realize what it is.
“Go lube it up.”
“What?” I glance down at the tube in my hand. A black bottle that says Anal Lube in big bold letters. “No!” I drop the bottle and jerk away so hard I lose my footing.
Killian catches me, digging his fingers into my arms. He pulls me into him—his wide, firm chest—and leans close to my ear. His voice is low and raspy, a snarl that makes me freeze in place. “Pick up the lube and prepare the bench.”
There’s no threat, just that low command. And it’s more than enough. When he loosens his grip, just holding on enough to steady me, I bend down to pick up the lube, then go to stand beside the bench.
Closing my eyes, I draw a few shuddery breaths that seem to resound through the room with the force of a stuttering engine about to give in.
“Please, Killian,” I beg, but he’s unforgiving. Arms crossed over his chest, stance wide and tall, he’s an impenetrable wall of dominance. He doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his stare is enough.
My shoulders slump in defeat as I pop the tube open and squeeze lube onto the smooth phallus.
“Rub it in,” Killian demands.
My whole body coils tight as I go against all instincts and slide my fingers through the lube, smearing it around the wooden dildo.
“Uh, uh,” Killian admonishes. “Do it like you mean it. Fist and pump it.”
Biting down on my molars, I cover my eyes as if not seeing would make it any better.
Then I fold my fingers around the phallus and rub the thing, up and down, twisting my hand from one side to the other.
It’s a vulgar display that creates a slick sound.
Knowing I’m the one creating it makes me whimper repeatedly, just from the sheer wrongness of it all.
“More lube,” Killian orders, then, “Harder.” He makes me do the exact thing he did that day, only so much worse by letting me do it myself.
The phallus is hard and unforgiving in my hand, and the idea of getting impaled on it again has panic creeping along the edges of my brain—a hundred slithering serpents waiting to strike in unison.
I’m so damn scared, remembering what happened the last time.
But at the same time, the memory is vague, the daze somehow still cushioning the anxiety.
“Enough,” he finally says and comes to stand at my side, rubs my hand with a wet wipe, then grabs my cheeks between his fingers. “Open,” he demands, staring me down, making me feel the height difference acutely.
Tentatively but obediently, I open my mouth. He has me so deep in his grip that I can’t do anything but obey at this point. The fear barely even matters. He’s right. I truly am his puppet on a string. He has eradicated everything in my mind and taken complete utter control.
Pft.
The sound makes me wince just before Killian’s spit hits my tongue. But before disgust or humiliation can overcome me, he delivers another hard command. “Swallow.”
I obey. I swallow his spit while I stare up into his cold blue eyes, cruel and demeaning but so full of steady, all-consuming power.
I feel like I’m floating. In a rapid tide that hurls me around, yet never crashes me into the rocks or pulls me under.
It just sweeps me away, and all I can do is let go and let it take me.
Killian watches me for a moment, imprinting his authority on me.
Then, fingers digging into my jaw, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not sweet or even mutual. His kiss is like everything else he does: harsh and demanding, and so damn world-altering.
It takes me for another violent whirl in the current, and when he releases me, I have forgotten where we are and what we’re doing.
I don’t think; I just let him lead me around the bench and lower me toward the dildo.
With two strong hands gripping my ribs, he determines the pace.
Part of me wants to work against him and slow the process, but I’m too far gone, my legs too weak to manage the strength, so I just lean into him and let him bend me to his will.
Unlike the last time, he doesn’t go slow.
He doesn’t need to. He has prepared me well; I sink onto the phallus without a problem.
It barely takes a minute before I’m in place, the stiff thing seated deep inside me, the bench cold against my ass.
But no matter how easily the process went, how obedient I am, the rigid intrusion is overpowering.
I start panting and whimpering, squirming with latent panic.
And each squirm only worsens the sensation, making me aware of the rigidity and reminding me how stuck I am—how long the phallus is, how long it took to get me off it the last time. The cramps, the panic, the pain.
My vision starts to blur. I press my hands to the bench, trying to push up.
But just a little movement sparks a whirl of sensation in my tight opening, overcoming me in a powerful, terrifying surge, physical and psychological.
It’s too much. I collapse back onto the bench, too weak to go on, too aroused, too scared, too… stuck.
Panic creeps in. I start clawing at the slick wood.
But then Killian is there, on the bench with me, legs caging me in, arms banding around me, chest pressing against my back.
It’s not exactly a hug. It’s more like a vise.
A cage. And it’s just what I need. His power grounds me—shuts down my brain to make room for him.
Tears spring to my eyes. I collapse into him, going slack in every muscle.
My head lolls against his shoulder, my legs sliding out to rest limply on the floor.
When he pushes a finger between my legs and finds my clit, I release a hoarse cry.
The burst of sensation overcomes my body, threatening to overload the system.
I start crying, needing the outlet as everything is strung tight, hovering.
Killian starts working his hips against me, slight movements that jostle me against the stiff intrusion in my ass.
More sensation, more mind-numbing, paralyzing bursts of electricity.
I can’t think, I can’t move. All I can do is sit here and take.
The sensations coil and twist, tightening deep in my gut.
I jerk from the force of it, spasms making my legs bounce against the floor, bolts making me lurch and catch on the stiff dildo, creating more overpowering sensations.
My moans fill the room, a long cascade only broken off by sniffles and cries.
“Come for me,” Killian whispers, then hardens his voice to a sneer. “Show me what a dirty little ass slut you are and come while you fuck the wooden dildo.”
It’s not his soft whispers that drive me mad with lust. It’s his mocking, vile words that makes me hump the horrible thing, moving up and down with slight motions, grinding against his hand, grinding against the unforgiving stiffness impaling me.
My moans grow longer, my sobs shorter. My feet stiffen against the floor, and every fiber inside me coils tight. With a scream, I lurch over the edge, clawing at Killian’s thighs, dropping my head further back on his shoulder, utterly lost in the mind-numbing ecstasy.
“Killian,” I moan through the last stutters of pleasure. “Killian,” I repeat breathily as I come down. He’s my whole world. Everything I crave, all I’ve ever wanted.
“Hmm,” he hums, gripping me tighter.
Silence descends. My panting is the only sound for a while, but eventually it dies down, leaving the room in a peaceful calm.
I have no idea how long I sit—or hang—here in Killian’s arms. Keeping one arm tight around my waist, he brings his other hand to my forehead, making sure my head doesn’t roll off his shoulder.
Every muscle, every joint is loose and slack.
I don’t even move a finger. I might even drift off for a while.
Eventually, Killian starts moving. He strokes my hair, rocks me slightly, building awareness in my body and coaxing me back to consciousness.
“What was that piece you were playing the other night when Dad was out?”
It takes a moment for my brain to crank back into gear and realize what he’s talking about. My own piece. “Oh, that. Nothing.”
“What was it?” he insists.
“I was just playing around.” The need to protect myself surfaces, and I steady my legs against the floor and straighten my head.
“No, you weren’t. I’ve heard you playing it before.” Reaching over me, he plays a piece of the melody.
My cheeks heat at the sound of the melody I created. When playing it myself, I like it, but hearing Killian play it, it feels stupid. I know he won’t care for it. I can’t believe he’s heard it. I thought I was careful, making sure no one was near whenever I played it.
“What is it?” he repeats, uncompromising as ever.
“Nothing. I was just playing around a little,” I repeat, refusing to say more.
Grabbing my face between his long fingers, he turns my head toward him. “You came up with that yourself?” His eyes are sharp with something that I think is mockery as he scans my face.
More embarrassment washes over me. I try to look away, but he won’t let me, so I turn the emotion into anger—just like he always seems to do. “It was just a silly little thing I came up with, okay? Nothing worth talking about.”
“I want to hear it.”
“No,” I say sharply.
“It’s not a question.”
“It’s private. I’m not playing it for you.”
“Silly little girl. You really think you have the right to keep it from me? Have you already forgotten? You’re mine.” Jerking his hips, he jostles me against the wooden dildo.
The desire that had settled into a bearable hum spikes with a vengeance. Suddenly, I’m feeling hot and flustered all over again, a thrumming desire coalescing deep in my belly.
Tightening his thighs around me, he starts rocking and reaches down between my legs. When I try to squeeze my thighs shut, he gives me a stern warning that instantly has my legs softening again.
“You’re mine, Jenna.” With the sheer force of his magnetic gaze, he forces the message into me. It hits straight into that empty place that craves to belong—and not just anywhere. To him and his dad.
“You don’t get to hide. Not anything. Your body is mine”—he rubs my clit, making me buck with wild bursts of sensation—“your mind is mine”—he gives my head a shake, then leans dangerously close—“and your goddamn music is mine. So stop stalling and play the piece.”
“No, Killian,” I gasp, overcome by the enormity of it all—the pleasure once again rolling through my body like I haven’t already come, the whir of emotion building by the second.
“Yes, Jenna. Play, or you won’t get to come.” With an abrupt motion, he pulls his hand from my clit, leaving me reeling right at the edge.
“Play,” he demands with that sharp tone that spears straight into my submissive instincts.
I draw a shuddery breath. Then I lift my hands to the piano and reveal my music to him—a secret much more intimate and vulnerable than my deepest darkest deficiencies.
It’s terrifying, yet also freeing, like finally opening up and letting him have the real me.
I desperately hope he will receive it with care, because I don’t think I can bear it if he tears this apart.