Chapter 13 #3
There’s no build-up, no final, teasing climb. The denial has been so absolute, so prolonged, that the second the physical restraint is gone and the mental command is given, my body simply folds.
It crashes through me with a force that whites out my vision.
I scream as my whole body convulses. My cock jerks violently, and come spurts across my stomach and chest in thick, hot ropes.
It doesn’t feel like pleasure, not in any clean, simple way.
It’s a tidal wave of sensation that obliterates everything else.
Every muscle I have locks tight, from my toes to my scalp, trembling on the edge of seizure.
Wave after punishing wave rolls through me, wringing me out, and I can’t stop the sounds coming from my throat—sobs, screams, wordless pleas.
Through the hazy, blinding static of my own release, I am dimly aware that Suha hasn’t stopped. He’s still moving inside me, his hips driving into me with a rhythm that has lost its measured control. His thrusts become sharper, more urgent, spurred on by my violent climax clenching around him.
He leans down over me, his body a heavy, welcome weight.
His mouth finds the junction of my neck and shoulder, and he bites down.
A deep, claiming sink of teeth into flesh already littered with his marks.
I feel the sharp pinch, the warm trickle of blood, and I moan, the sound dissolving into another weak shudder.
I feel the familiar, insistent swelling at the base of his cock.
His knot. It pushes against my overstretched, oversensitive rim, and I am too wrecked to do anything but take it.
It catches, and with one final, deep thrust, he forces it through, locking us together.
The stretch is immense, filling me completely, and as he bites down harder, I feel the hot pulse of his release deep inside me.
He collapses slightly against me, his breathing harsh in my ear, his weight pinning me to the soaked sheets. We are tied together, a tangled, sweating, bleeding, come-stained mess.
I am empty. Hollowed out. Every ounce of fight, of thought, of self, has been fucked and pained and pleaded out of me. There is only the heavy, solid reality of his body on mine, his knot lodged inside me, and the slow, cooling stickiness on my skin.
I lie face-down on the bed, my cheek pressed into the damp silk of the pillowcase.
My body feels like it’s been disassembled and put back together wrong.
Every muscle protests when I try to move even a finger.
My ass aches with a deep, persistent throb, a raw and tender echo of every slap and thrust. The cigarette burns on my thighs pulse with their own hot, stinging rhythm, and the bite marks on my neck and shoulders feel tight and swollen.
I can feel the sticky warmth of Suha’s come beginning to leak out of me, a messy, undeniable reminder.
All I want is to sink into the mattress and not surface for a week. My eyelids are so heavy. Consciousness is a thin, frayed thread I’m barely clinging to. If I could just sleep...
The sound of a drawer sliding open cuts through the thick silence of the room.
My body goes rigid, flinching instinctively. I hear Suha moving around, his footsteps quiet on the plush carpet. They stop beside the bed. I don’t open my eyes. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, already gone...
His hands land on my ass, fingers digging into the sore, heated flesh. I can’t suppress the full-body flinch this time. He pushes my cheeks apart, the motion ungentle.
“What are you—” I start to mumble into the pillow, my voice a wrecked, slurry thing.
The question dies in my throat as I feel it. Something cold. Something solid and round, about the size of a large coin. It presses against my stretched, used hole, and then Suha pushes it inside.
The sensation is bizarre. It’s not pain. It’s a blunt, foreign pressure, a smooth, cool disc sliding in past my rim with unsettling ease. It’s so different from the heat and give of flesh. My back arches off the bed, a shocked gasp tearing from my lips.
“The fuck is that?” I manage to snarl, twisting my head to try and see over my shoulder. My muscles scream in protest.
His hand on the small of my back holds me down, firm and unforgiving. I can’t turn.
I hear the soft clink of metal on glass from the nightstand. Then I feel something else—something long and thin and hard. The tip of it, cool and smooth, presses against the coin already inside me. He’s not using his fingers. It’s a tool.
“A geotag,” Suha says. His voice is perfectly nonchalant.
My brain stutters, tripping over the word. It doesn’t connect. “A what?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with pressure.
The thin metal probe pushes inward, forcing the round tag deeper into my body.
It’s a sickening, invasive slide. It’s not like being fucked.
That’s a stretch, a filling. This is... insertion.
An object being placed somewhere no object should be.
I kick out weakly, my heels thumping against the rumpled sheets. “It won’t stay in, you idiot,” I spit, humiliation burning hot. “My body will just push it out. That’s how it works.”
Above me, I can practically feel his smirk. “I’ll make sure it’s deep enough that you can’t.”
The probe pushes further. I grunt, my fingers curling into the sheets. It’s moving past the initial ring of muscle, into a channel that’s not meant for this. The sensation is deeply, profoundly wrong. It’s cold. It’s unfeeling. It’s an invasion.
He works it deeper, slowly, relentlessly.
My protests turn into strangled, wordless noises as I feel the cold metal object traveling up inside me.
It’s being seated far beyond where my own fingers could ever reach, past any point of natural resistance.
It feels like it’s being pushed up into my guts, a cold, alien weight settling in a place that makes my skin crawl.
I pant against the pillow, sweat beading on my forehead again.
Shame coils in my stomach, acidic and hot.
And beneath the shame, an undeniable thread of arousal pulls tight.
The utter humiliation of it, the complete loss of control.
.. it sparks something dark and hungry in the wreckage of my nerves.
My cock, spent and soft just minutes ago, gives a feeble, interested twitch against the mattress. I hate it. I hate him. I hate myself.
Finally, he stops. The probe holds still, buried deep. Then, with a slow, careful withdrawal, he pulls it out.
The absence of the tool is almost as startling as its presence. But the tag remains. I can feel it now, not as a sharp presence, but as a deep, internal pressure, a cold spot lodged high up inside me where I can’t touch, can’t reach, can’t remove it.
He pulls the probe free completely. I hear the soft sound of it being placed back on the nightstand.
I am panting, my face burning with a humiliation that goes bone-deep. There’s a fucking tracker embedded inside me. Not on my clothes, not in a bag. In my ass. He can find me anywhere now. Anytime. I’ll never be out of his reach.
I don’t hear him move, but I feel the dip in the mattress as Suha sits on the edge of the bed beside me. His hand lands on the small of my back. I flinch, the muscles there jumping under my skin. I expect another bite, another slap, another cold intrusion.
Instead, his fingers find the first nipple clamp. The little metal jaws are still dug into the swollen, tender flesh of my left nipple. He pinches the small lever at the top and releases it.
The sensation is a shock of a different color.
It’s a sharp, biting sting as the clamp’s grip loosens, followed immediately by a hot, prickling flood as blood rushes back into the constricted tissue.
It’s a pain that borders on pleasure, a relief so intense it’s almost worse than the clamp itself.
A hiss escapes my clenched teeth, my back bowing slightly.
The nipple throbs, feeling huge and hypersensitive, the ghost of the clamp’s teeth still etched into the skin.
He does the same to the right one. Another hiss, another full-body jolt. I press my forehead harder into the pillow, my fingers twisting in the sheets. The two points on my chest feel like they’re on fire, a bright, singing ache that pulses with my heartbeat.
Slowly, every movement a careful negotiation with pain, I push myself up onto my elbows.
The room tilts slightly. I blink, taking in the scene.
Suha is standing beside the bed now, completely naked and utterly unselfconscious, gathering the scattered tools of my torment.
He picks up the metal cuffs, the leather straps, the nipple clamps, the sinister-looking probe.
He carries them over to a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed and deposits them inside with a series of soft thuds.
The lid closes with a final, heavy sound.
He turns back to me, his expression unreadable.
He walks to the armchair where he’d sat for hours, watching.
His clothes are draped over the back. He pulls on his black slacks with that same casual grace, buttoning them but leaving them unfastened at the top.
He doesn’t put on a shirt. He just settles into the chair, reaches for his silver cigarette case on the side table, and taps one out.
I watch him, confusion cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion. My voice, when I find it, is rough and scraped raw. “You’re letting me go?”
He lights the cigarette with a flick of his thumb on a sleek, matte black lighter. He takes a long drag, exhaling the smoke towards the high ceiling. He shrugs one shoulder, a minimal movement. “You’re tagged now,” he says. “So I know where to find you if I need you.”