Chapter 12 #2
I feel him shift, hear the distinctive rasp of leather sliding through belt loops.
A second later, the cool, wide strap of his belt wraps around my crossed wrists.
He pulls it tight, the leather biting into my skin immediately, and I hear the buckle fasten with a decisive metallic click.
He gives it a final, testing tug, and the bindings dig in deeper. I’m properly secured.
Humiliation, hot and prickling, washes over me, followed immediately by a surge of anger.
This isn’t the game anymore. This isn’t me sneaking in and out on my terms. This is him, cornering me in what I thought was my space, buying my time from my own boss, and treating me like a problem to be restrained.
“You fucking asshole,” I snarl into the leather, my voice muffled. “Let me go.”
His answer is a hand sliding between my legs from behind. His fingers are cool as they close around my balls, not gently. He squeezes.
The pain is blinding and utterly effective.
It’s a different kind of shock, a deep, nauseating ache that short-circuits every other thought in my head.
My entire body goes rigid, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat.
All my fight evaporates, replaced by a desperate, instinctual stillness.
Any movement might make him tighten his grip.
His lips brush the shell of my ear, his voice a deadly whisper. “Behave. Or I will make this so much worse for you. Do you understand?”
I can’t speak. I can only manage a tight, jerky nod, my face still mashed against the couch. The pressure of his hand lessens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. The threat remains, a constant, pulsing ache.
I hear the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric.
He doesn’t bother taking his pants off, just frees himself.
I tense, waiting. There’s no preparation, no more slick fingers.
Just the blunt, hot press of his cock against my hole, which is still loose from his rough fingering but nowhere near ready for this.
He pushes in.
The stretch is brutal, a tearing, burning sensation that makes me cry out, the sound swallowed by the couch.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause. He sinks into me in one long, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The angle is deep, unforgiving, forcing him into places that haven’t been touched since his rut.
I feel impossibly full, split open on him, my body straining to accommodate the invasion.
He lets out a low, satisfied groan above me, his grip on my balls finally releasing. But the relief is short-lived. His hand moves to my hip, fingers digging into the bone with a force that I know will leave bruises. He begins to move.
His pace is punishing from the first stroke.
He pulls back almost all the way and then slams back in, a hard, driving rhythm that jolts my entire body forward on the couch with every impact.
The leather creaks beneath us. Each thrust drags against my oversensitive, burning insides, a friction that borders on agony.
But buried deep within that agony, sparked by that brutal angle, is a thread of sharp, electric pleasure that originates from that same spot his fingers abused, now being struck with the solid weight of his cock over and over.
I bite my lip, trying to stifle the sounds being forced out of me, but it’s useless.
Sharp grunts and choked gasps escape with every drive of his hips.
The hand not clamped on my hip comes up and tangles in my hair, yanking my head back to arch my spine.
The new angle makes him go even deeper, and I see white for a second.
Then he leans down, his chest pressing against my bound arms and back. His mouth finds the back of my neck, right at the junction with my shoulder. He doesn’t kiss it. He bites.
His teeth sink in, sharp and deliberate, breaking the skin.
I yell, a raw, unfiltered sound of pain that echoes in the quiet, insulated room.
He holds the bite as he fucks into me, his hips never losing their brutal rhythm.
I can feel the wet heat of blood welling up, trickling in a thin, warm line down my spine.
The pain from the bite mixes with the burning stretch and that insistent spark of pleasure, creating a confusing, overwhelming cocktail of sensation that leaves me dizzy.
He releases my neck with a final, sharp suck on the wound, panting against my skin.
“Mine,” he growls. His hand leaves my hair and slides back between my legs, not to my balls this time, but to wrap around my cock, which is, inevitably, hard and leaking against the cold leather of the couch.
He squeezes it in the same punishing grip he used on my hip.
“All of this. You don’t get to give what’s mine to anyone else. Not even in a ring.”
He punctuates the statement with a particularly vicious thrust, and my vision tunnels, the world reducing itself to the feel of the leather under my cheek, the bite of the belt on my wrists, the deep, punishing invasion of his body in mine, and the hot, claiming sting of his teeth in my neck.
Suha’s hips hammer into me, each thrust a calculated punishment. The leather of the couch is cool and slick under my cheek, a stark contrast to the burning heat spreading from my core.
I ignore it. Or I try to. I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, focusing on that clean, metallic sting instead of the confusing mess of sensations he’s stirring up.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me enjoy it.
The sounds I can’t swallow come out as choked grunts, muffled by the cushion, and I know he hears them, but they’re sounds of effort, not submission.
My real focus is on my wrists. The belt is good quality leather, thick and stubborn, but it wasn’t meant for this.
Suha had cinched it tight in his anger, but he’d been in a hurry.
The buckle is secure, but the loop where the leather feeds through has some give.
With every brutal snap of his hips, my body jolts forward, my wrists twisting minutely against the binding.
I work with the motion, not against it. When he drives into me, I let my arms go slack, letting my full weight pull against the strap.
When he pulls back, I subtly flex my hands, turning my wrists, feeling the leather slide against sweat-slicked skin.
It’s a slow, maddening process. Each tiny gain feels like a victory.
The belt doesn’t loosen so much as it begins to sit differently on my skin, the initial biting pressure spreading out, becoming a dull, encompassing ache instead of a sharp cut.
I can feel the pad of my thumb start to find the edge of the buckle’s prong.
Above me, Suha’s breathing is changing. His rhythm, which had been a relentless, punishing march, starts to fracture.
His thrusts become harder, deeper, less controlled.
A low, guttural sound builds in his chest, vibrating through his body and into mine.
His grip on my hip tightens, his fingers surely leaving bruises that will match the ones on my neck.
He comes with a snarling groan, his body locking up as he buries himself to the hilt inside me. I feel the hot spill of him, the involuntary pulsing of his cock. For a few long seconds, he just stays there, his weight heavy on my back, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades as he pants.
This is it. The moment of vulnerability. The post-climax haze where even the most dangerous predators are briefly, stupidly sated.
I don’t waste it.
With a twist and a surge of strength that tears something in my shoulder, I wrench my hands apart.
The leather, weakened and worked loose, gives way with a sharp, protesting creak.
The sudden freedom is a shock to my system.
My arms scream as blood rushes back into them, pins and needles erupting from my wrists to my fingertips.
I don’t have time to feel it. I twist violently beneath him, using the momentum of my freed arms to buck my hips and roll. He’s caught off guard, his body still heavy and languid from his release. My knee comes up, and I drive my foot into his chest with every ounce of strength I have left.
The impact makes a solid, satisfying thump.
Suha makes a sound that’s pure surprise, the air leaving his lungs in a rush as he’s shoved backward.
He stumbles, his legs tangling, and crashes into the low glass table in front of the couch.
Crystal tumblers and an ice bucket go flying, shattering on the hardwood floor with a spectacular crash.
I’m already moving. I roll off the couch, my legs wobbling underneath me, and yank my shorts and underwear up in one frantic, graceless motion. The fabric drags against my sore skin, catching on the mess of come and blood. I don’t look back. I sprint for the door.
Behind me, Suha’s roar of fury shakes the room. “Yujeong!”
I hit the door handle, throw my weight against the wood, and burst out into the quiet hallway. The plush carpet swallows the sound of my footsteps, but I can hear the chaos erupting in the suite I just left—shouting, the sound of more things breaking, Suha bellowing orders.
My heart is a wild drum against my ribs, my breath sawing in and out of my throat.
I know this building. I’ve skulked around its back corridors for years, looking for quiet corners to smoke or hide from people I owed money.
I take a hard left, away from the main staircase, and dive into a narrow service hallway lined with mops and buckets.
The door at the end is marked ‘EXIT’ in faded red letters.
I hit the bar and stumble out into the cool night air of an alley. I don’t pause. I run.