10. The Waiting #2
I should refuse. I should tell him to go to hell, that I didn't resist touching myself for hours just to get on my knees for him now.
But I want this.
God help me, I want this. The Protocol has spent all day building the need, and now it's cresting, demanding release, and I don't care anymore how I get it. I don't care if I have to kneel, have to service him, have to debase myself completely. I just need to come before I lose my mind.
I slide off the bed. Kneel on the floor in front of him.
He pushes his pants down. His cock springs free. Hard, flushed, already leaking. He's been suffering too. The evidence is right there in front of me.
"Open."
I open my mouth.
He feeds his cock past my lips.
The weight of him on my tongue is obscene. He's thick, hot, pulsing with need. I taste salt, musk, and something that's just him, and arousal spikes so hard I moan around his length.
"That's it." His hand finds the back of my head, guiding but not forcing. "Take me deeper. Show me what a good girl you are."
I take him deeper. Relax my throat the way I learned years ago, during encounters that feel like they happened to a different person. He slides in, inch by inch, until my nose is pressed against his stomach and I can't breathe and I don't care.
"Fuck." The curse escapes him. "Your mouth—you're?—"
I pull back. Suck hard on the head. Swirl my tongue around the ridge. His hips jerk, and savage satisfaction tears through me. I'm affecting him. I'm making him lose his carefully crafted control.
I work him with everything I have. Hands and mouth, tongue and lips. I hollow my cheeks, I take him deep, I moan around his length because the Protocol has made me so desperate that even this, even sucking his cock on my knees, feels like pleasure.
"Enough." He pulls out abruptly. His cock glistens with my spit, bobbing in front of my face. "On the bed. Now."
I climb onto the bed. Hands and knees, because that seems like what he wants. But he flips me over. Onto my back. Spreads my legs with his hands and settles between them.
"I was going to make you wait until tomorrow." He positions himself at my entrance. The head of his cock presses against me, just barely, the promise of penetration without the act. "I was going to deny you all night. Let you sleep aching. Break you properly."
"What changed?"
"You did." He pushes in—just an inch. I gasp. "You didn't break the way I expected. You defied me by obeying, and that's—" Another inch. "—infuriating."
"Good." The word comes out strangled. "I want to infuriate you."
"Careful what you wish for."
He slams home.
The penetration is brutal. No buildup, no gentleness, just one hard thrust that buries him to the hilt. I scream, my back arching off the bed, my nails raking down his arms. It's too much. After hours of edging, of denial, of being kept on the brink, the fullness is overwhelming.
He doesn't give me time to adjust.
He fucks me like he's angry. Hard, fast, punishing thrusts that knock the breath out of me with every stroke. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place while he takes what he wants.
And I take it.
I take everything he gives me, every brutal thrust, every punishing stroke. The pleasure builds and builds, the Protocol amplifying every sensation until I can't tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore. I'm sobbing, clawing at his back, begging for something I can't even name?—
"Come." The command is guttural. "Now."
I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like violence. So intense it's almost painful, wave after wave of release that's been building for hours finally crashing over me. I scream his name, or maybe just scream, my whole body convulsing around him as he keeps fucking me through it.
"Again."
I can't. I can't possibly?—
But I can. The Protocol won't let me come down. He changes his angle, hits something inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I'm coming again before the first orgasm even ends. A second wave, a third, rolling into each other until I can't tell where one ends and another begins.
"That's it." His voice is strained. He's close too—it's in the way his rhythm falters, the way his grip tightens. "Take it all. Take everything I give you."
He slams in one final time and holds. He pulses inside me, the heat of his release filling me, and some distant part of my brain notes that we haven't used protection, haven't discussed it, but none of it matters because I'm still coming, still falling apart, still drowning in pleasure I never asked for.
He collapses on top of me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. His weight pins me to the mattress. His breath is harsh against my neck. His cock is still inside me, softening slowly, and I'm too wrecked to push him away.
Then he rolls off.
Lies beside me on his back. Staring at the ceiling.
"You sleep here tonight."
Not a question. Not an offer. An order.
"Fine."
I couldn't move if I wanted to. My body has been destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again. The pleasure has left me hollowed out, empty, a shell of the woman I was this morning.
He used me.
The realization settles in slowly, coldly. He wanted something, and he took it. The edging, the denial, the eventual release. None of it was about me. It was about proving his control. About showing me that he owns my pleasure, can give it or withhold it at will.
I got what I wanted. I came. Multiple times. But the feeling of being used lingers anyway.
Maybe that's the point.
"Tomorrow." His voice cuts through the darkness. "The Protocol will be stronger. Your resistance will be weaker. And we'll see how long your defiance holds."
"Is that a challenge?"
"It's a warning." He turns his head. Looks at me in the dim light. "The first week is the hardest. Your body is adjusting. Your mind is fighting. But eventually, the Protocol reaches steady state, and the fighting becomes... exhausting."
"You want me to stop fighting?"
"I want you to stop fighting battles you can't win." His hand finds mine in the darkness. Holds it. The intimacy is confusing. He just fucked me like I was nothing, and now he's holding my hand? "Save your strength for the ones that matter."
"How do I know which ones matter?"
"You'll learn."
His thumb traces circles on my palm. Slow. Almost gentle.
"There's a dinner," he says quietly. "In three weeks. People I do business with. You'll attend."
My stomach drops. "Attend how?"
"On my arm. As my companion." A pause. "They'll know what you are to me. They'll see the signs. The collar, the deference, the way you respond to my commands. But they won't touch. They'll only look."
A collar. He's going to put a collar on me.
"And if I refuse?"
"You can't refuse." His hand tightens on mine. "But I'm telling you now so you can prepare. Three weeks to practice. To learn how to be mine in public as well as in private."
Three weeks. In three weeks, he's going to parade me in front of his associates like a prize pet.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you earned it." He releases my hand. Rolls away. His back is to me now. A wall, a dismissal. "You didn't break today. You defied me in the only way you could, and that takes strength. So I'm giving you information. Treating you like something other than a possession."
"But I’m a possession."
"Yes." The word is flat. Final. "You are. But possessions can be valued. Can be treated well. Can be trusted with knowledge of what's coming."
He reaches out, turns off the lamp on the nightstand. Darkness descends.
"Sleep. Tomorrow will be harder."
I lie in the dark beside the man who owns me, his cum drying between my thighs, his words echoing in my head.
Tomorrow will be harder.
Day one is over. I survived.
But tomorrow the Protocol will be stronger. And the day after that, stronger still. For a week, until it reaches steady state. Until my body is fully attuned to his, until resistance becomes exhausting.
And then, in three weeks, I'll wear his collar in public.
I close my eyes.