Chapter 65Collared by the Devil #2
He lets the silence breathe between us before adding, “When you learn to follow my rules, I’ll remove it.”
My lips part, but no sound comes.
‘‘Are you sure you have missed me?’’
The collar tightens subtly when I swallow again. It’s not cruel. It doesn’t hurt unless I resist .
So I don’t.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Silly girl,’’ he murmurs. ‘‘Don’t you know by now not to provoke the Devil of Russia?’’
The gentle mask slips entirely.
He stands again, slowly, fluidly, like a man becoming his old self for the first time in a long while. And I see it now, see him. Yes, he learned how to be gentle, but there are his roots.
The blood-soaked heir to a violent empire.
He steps forward until he’s towering over me. My pulse races so fast it’s almost painful.
“You think I didn’t miss you?” His voice is low, dangerous.
He crouches slowly, one hand cupping my jaw again, not gentle anymore, and the other grazing the edge of the collar around my throat.
“I’ve starved for you, solnyshko ,” he says, voice like smoke and steel. “But not the quiet version. Not the soft one.”
His thumb slides across my lower lip, slow. Possessive.
“This version,” he growls. He leans in close, breath ghosting over my cheek, voice almost tender in its cruelty.
“And if you ask for the monster, you’ll get him. Because you own this monster.”
He doesn’t kiss me.
He doesn’t ask.
He rises from the crouch slowly, towering over me, then unzips his pants with that same casual violence he uses to give orders that end lives.
His cock is thick, flushed, heavy in his hand, and he doesn’t hesitate. He fists it once, twice, and my breath catches, helpless and pinned and dripping for him. I can’t look away. The posture collar won’t let me.
“Open,” he orders.
My lips part before the word even fully lands.
He slides his thumb over my tongue first, pressing down until I gag slightly. He watches the reflex with a flicker of dark satisfaction, then drags the wet digit down my chin, smearing my spit.
“You don’t get to use that mouth for questions anymore, solnyshko ,” he murmurs, lining himself up. “Only for this.”
Then he pushes inside.
I choke, instinctively pulling back, but the collar holds me locked in place. My eyes water instantly. My arms strain in their restraints. My entire body flushes with shock and helpless arousal.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks my throat like he owns it, hips rolling in slow, brutal thrusts. Not fast—methodical . Precise. Like he’s reclaiming territory that forgot who it belonged to. His hand wraps in my hair, holding me still while his cock buries deep again and again.
“God, look at you,” he grunts. “Tears on your cheeks, drool on your tits, dripping through your lace like a desperate little whore, and you’re loving it.”
I moan around him, humiliated and unholy.
He pulls out suddenly, a string of saliva snapping between my lips and the tip of him, smeared down my chin. I gasp for breath, blinking tears from my eyes.
“Turn around,” he says, low and lethal.
I hesitate, but only for a second.
Then I obey.
He helps me onto the mattress this time, bent forward over it, cheeks pressed to the softer fabric. My arms are still bound to my thighs, so I can’t brace myself. I’m forced to arch, helpless and exposed.
He spreads me with both hands, rough, greedy, and groans.
“Fuck. Look at that,” he mutters. “Dripping down your thighs. You’ve been aching for me to break you.”
I shiver, throat raw, lips parted. “Yes, I have.”
He doesn’t give me a warning.
He drives into me in one ruthless thrust, so deep it knocks the air out of my lungs.
I scream.
There’s no build-up. No tenderness. Just claiming .
He grabs the back of the collar, yanking me upright by the neck with one hand while he pounds into me from behind. His other hand comes around to slap my clit, sharp, rhythmic, devastating.
“You want the monster?” he growls in my ear, each word punctuated by a savage thrust. “Then scream for him.”
I do.
I scream his name, my body jerking with each brutal snap of his hips. The collar keeps me upright. The restraints keep me helpless.
And he uses all of it.
He fucks me like I’m not a woman but a possession, a ritual, something sacred and profane all at once.
And when I come, it’s violent. Messy. Shocking.
It rips through me like a shuddering collapse, everything tightening at once before I unravel around him. My voice breaks. My knees buckle. I cry out until the sound disappears into silence.
But he’s not finished.
Aslanov doesn’t move for a moment.
He just watches me; collared, restrained, kneeling, flushed with tears and spit and the wreckage of my own want. Then, slowly, his eyes drop… not to me. Past me.
To the door.
He turns, strides to it, and cracks it open just wide enough to reach out. I don’t see what he grabs. Only hear the sound of something heavy being dragged, metal against floor.
Then the door shuts again with a definitive, echoing thud.
He locked us in.
When he steps back into my line of sight, he’s carrying a steel bar. About three feet long. Matte black. Minimalist. Sinister.
My heart stutters.
He sets it beside me on the mattress, kneels, and brushes my sweat-slicked hair from my cheek. His touch is almost gentle.
“You’ve been so good, solnyshko ,” he says, voice low, almost admiring. “Took the collar without crying. Took my cock down your throat like it belonged there. You ache so pretty.”
I shake under the weight of his words.
“You beg so honestly,” he adds, brushing a knuckle along my bottom lip. “It’s almost a shame I’m going to ruin you worse.”
I whimper, and he smiles.
Then he lifts the bar.
I feel the weight of it before he even attaches it to me. It’s a spreader bar. He locks one cuff to my right ankle. Then the other. The bar forces my legs wide—obscenely wide—and I gasp, heat blooming in my cheeks, between my thighs, everywhere.
He takes his time adjusting it, checking the angle, the strain on my muscles, the full exposure of me. He doesn’t rush. This is an art form.
Then he circles me.
Stalks around my trembling, collared, kneeling form like a beast deciding where to bite first. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts.
“You wanted the Devil,” he murmurs, stalking. “You asked for him. So don’t fucking squirm when he claims his due.”
He crouches behind me.
His palm spreads across my lower back. He pushes down until I collapse to my elbows, my ass high in the air, legs locked wide by the bar.
“So open,” he murmurs. “So ready. All this for me?”
“All of it,” I gasp.
He moans, low in his throat.
Then his mouth is on me.
His tongue drags through my folds, slow and hot, and I scream. There’s no easing into it, he devours me. Licks me like he’s trying to punish the slick out of me. His tongue circles my clit in tight, ruthless strokes, his groans vibrating into my core.
I’m helpless. I can’t close my legs, can’t push him away. I don’t want to. I’m pinned, wrecked, blessed .
His grip bruises my thighs, holding me in place as he licks me until I’m sobbing, actual tears, silent and burning.
“You taste like you were made to be worshipped,” he growls. “But I don’t worship gently.”
He pulls back only when I’m right at the edge.
Then, without warning, he stands, fists his cock, and thrusts into me from behind so hard I scream.
The bar jerks.
My body bows.
I come instantly, violently, spasming around him as he fucks me deep, brutal, claiming every inch. The collar holds my head up, the cuffs keep my hands at my thighs, and the bar keeps me wide open for him to ruin.
He leans over me, lips at my ear.
“Look at you,” he growls. “My perfect little sin. Crying and moaning and breaking just like I knew you would. You need to be used like this.”
I nod frantically. “Yes, yes, please—”
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman,” he grits. “Smart enough to disobey. Brave enough to beg. Filthy enough to take all of me like it’s heaven.”
I scream again as he slams deeper, faster, his hand reaching around to slap my clit with rough, perfect rhythm until I’m convulsing.
My second orgasm tears me apart.
My vision white-outs.
And he doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, the sound of skin on skin obscene, his groans becoming ragged, his control snapping.
Then—
He roars my name and comes with a force that makes him shake.
He stays buried inside me, both of us panting, twitching, entirely undone.
Slowly, so slowly, he withdraws.
He unlocks the bar. Unfastens my wrists. Loosens the collar, but doesn’t remove it.
Instead, he lifts me off the floor and lays me down on the mattress, his body half on top of mine. He kisses my forehead— the softest thing in the world—and tucks my face to his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.
A monster, cradling his favorite sin.