Chapter 12
Dmitry
The last thread of my control snapped like a wire under too much tension.
Thirty strikes against her perfect ass, watching her drip down her thighs, feeling her soak through my pants—I was done pretending this could wait.
She stood there in just my t-shirt, naked from the waist down, her arousal literally running down her legs.
"Fuck waiting," I said, the words rough as broken glass. "You're mine now."
My hands went to my shirt, fingers working buttons with less coordination than I'd had since I was fifteen and fumbling with my first girl.
But this wasn't some teenage groping in a dark corner.
This was Eva, my Little, standing there with her ass still red from my hand, looking at me like I was everything she'd ever wanted but never thought she could have.
The shirt hit the floor. Then my undershirt, revealing the tattoos that marked my history—Russian script across my chest, orthodox crosses down my ribs, the wolf that prowled across my shoulder blade.
Each one told a story of violence, of blood spilled and territory claimed.
But the way Eva's eyes traced each line of ink, her lips parting slightly, her breath catching—she wasn't seeing the violence. She was seeing me.
"Jesus," she whispered, and her hand moved toward me before she caught herself, fingers curling into a fist like she needed permission to touch.
"Not yet," I said, working my belt free. The leather whispered through the loops, and her eyes tracked the movement like Bear watching bacon. "You'll touch when I say you can touch."
The belt hit the floor with a sound that made her jump.
Then my hands were on my pants, and I made myself slow down, made myself watch her face as I undid the button, lowered the zipper.
Her pupils were blown so wide her mismatched eyes looked almost black.
A fresh wave of arousal scented the air—she was getting wetter just from watching me undress.
I pushed the pants down, taking my boxers with them, and Eva made a sound that was part gasp, part moan, part prayer.
My cock sprang free, harder than I'd ever been, the head already wet with precum.
A rod of desperate need, thick enough that her eyes widened with something between want and concern.
"Oh fuck," she breathed, unconsciously licking her lips. "You're . . . that's . . ."
"Yours," I finished, stepping out of the pooled fabric. "Every inch of it, just like every inch of you is mine."
She swayed toward me, magnetized, but I held up a hand. Not yet. This needed to be done right, with the control that had abandoned me during the spanking firmly back in place.
"Kneel," I commanded, pointing to the spot directly in front of me.
She dropped immediately, no hesitation, knees hitting the rug with a soft thud.
The position made my t-shirt ride up, exposing the curve of her hip, the evidence of her arousal glistening on her inner thighs.
She looked up at me through her lashes, and the trust there—the complete submission after weeks of fighting—made my cock twitch.
"Have you done this before?" I asked, needing to know what I was working with.
"Yes," she said, then quickly added, "but not . . . not like this. Not because I wanted to. Street stuff, survival stuff. This is different."
The thought of her on her knees for other men, not out of desire but desperation, made something violent rise in my chest. But that was the past. This was now, and now she was mine.
"Then I'll teach you how to do it right," I said, threading my fingers through her still-damp hair. "How to please your Daddy, how to take what I give you, how to be my good girl with your mouth."
She opened her mouth to respond, but I pressed my thumb against her lips, feeling their softness, their warmth.
"No talking unless I ask you a question," I said. "Your mouth has one job right now, and it's not forming words."
She nodded, eyes darkening further, and when I pulled my thumb away, her tongue darted out to wet her lips again.
"Take me in your mouth," I commanded, guiding her head forward with the hand in her hair. "Just the head first. Get used to the size."
She leaned forward, one hand coming up to wrap around the base of my cock, and the first touch of her fingers made me groan. Her hand was small, barely able to close around my girth, and the visual of it nearly undid me.
Then her mouth opened, pink lips stretching around the head, and the wet heat of it made my knees buckle. I locked them, forcing myself to stay upright, to maintain control even as her tongue tentatively explored the ridge, tasting the precum that had gathered there.
"Good girl," I managed, the words coming out strained. "Now take more. Slowly."
She obeyed, inching forward, taking another inch, then another. Her eyes watered slightly as she adjusted to the size, but she didn't pull back, didn't stop. If anything, the challenge seemed to excite her—I could smell her arousal intensifying, could see her thighs pressing together.
"Breathe through your nose," I instructed, my grip in her hair gentle but firm. "Relax your throat. Don't try to take it all yet—we'll work up to that."
She made a sound around my cock that might have been agreement, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. Her hand was still wrapped around the base, holding what wouldn't fit, and I covered it with mine, showing her the rhythm I wanted.
"Tell me what you like," she said when she pulled back for air, lips already swollen, chin wet with spit. "I want to be good for you."
The earnestness in her voice, the genuine desire to please, made my chest tight with something more than lust.
"Don't worry, little one," I said, guiding her mouth back to my cock. "I'll be very exacting in my instructions. By the time I'm done teaching you, you'll know exactly how to drive me crazy with this perfect mouth."
She moaned around me, taking me deeper, and I began the careful process of teaching her exactly what I liked—knowing that every lesson was bringing us closer to the moment when I'd finally claim her completely.
The transformation happened gradually, then all at once.
Each instruction I gave, Eva absorbed like she'd been waiting her whole life to learn this specific skill.
"Hollow your cheeks," I said, and she did, the suction making my hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"Use your tongue on the underside," and she traced that sensitive ridge with a precision that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
Within minutes, she'd gone from tentative to confident, from student to artist. Her mouth was heaven and hell combined—wet heat that threatened to end me with every stroke, suction that pulled not just at my cock but at something deeper, more primal.
She'd found her rhythm now, taking me deeper with each bob of her head, her hand working what her mouth couldn't reach in perfect synchronization.
"Twist your wrist when you stroke," I managed, though words were becoming increasingly difficult. "And—fuck, just like that."
She hummed her acknowledgment around my cock, and the vibration nearly sent me over the edge.
I had to tighten my grip in her hair, hold her still for a moment while I wrestled back control.
She looked up at me, eyes questioning, lips stretched obscenely around my girth, and the sight alone almost finished me.
"Too good," I explained, voice wrecked. "You're learning too fast, little one."
Pride flashed in her eyes, and when I loosened my grip, she dove back with renewed enthusiasm. This time, she added something I hadn't taught her—her free hand came up to cup my balls, rolling them gently while her mouth worked my cock. The dual sensation made my knees buckle again.
"Where did you—" I started, then lost the words as she did something with her tongue that short-circuited my brain.
She pulled back just enough to speak, lips still brushing the head. "You said to tell you what I like. I like the weight of them, the way they tighten when you're close."
Jesus Christ. This woman would kill me, but what a way to go.
She took me back in her mouth, deeper this time, relaxing her throat the way I'd taught her.
Six inches now, maybe seven, her eyes watering but determined.
The hand on my balls moved in rhythm with her mouth, a squeeze and release that matched her suction, and I could feel my orgasm building at the base of my spine.
But it was looking down at her that really threatened my control.
Not just her mouth on my cock, though that image would be burned into my memory forever.
It was all of her—the way my t-shirt had ridden up completely, exposing her breasts, nipples hard and begging for attention.
The way her thighs rubbed together, seeking friction she wouldn't find.
The curve of her spine as she leaned forward, the red handprints still visible on her ass from the spanking.
Mine. This perfect, fierce, broken, beautiful woman was mine.
"Look at you," I said, the words torn from somewhere deep. "On your knees for Daddy, cock in your mouth, dripping wet from sucking me. You're perfect, Eva. Absolutely fucking perfect."
She moaned around me, the sound desperate and needy, and I felt her hand leave my balls to drift between her own legs.
"No," I commanded, pulling her head back by her hair. "You don't touch yourself. That pussy is mine, and you'll come when I make you come, not before."
She whimpered but moved her hand back to my balls, squeezing slightly harder as if in retaliation. The pressure was perfect, right on the edge of too much, and combined with her mouth taking me deep again, I could feel my control slipping.