Contained #2
My cock is diamond-hard, straining at the fabric. I want to fuck her now, bend her over and make every word she’s ever thrown against me irrelevant. But I need to see her on fire first.
I say, “You’re drowning.”
She’s moaning, too, but this is a contest now, and she knows the rules better than most.
“You wanted sensory overload,” I say, not expecting a reply. “You’ll get it.”
I reach into the bottom drawer to retrieve the feather and the Wartenberg wheel. Both are extremes, opposites. She’ll feel every nuance. The tip of the feather across the exposed skin of her thighs draws gooseflesh instantly. Her entire body locks, silent but for the involuntary suck of breath.
She is hypersensitized. Her nerve pathways are tuned to a pitch I can practically see. Directly after, I let the spiked roller drag across the same skin. She whimpers, a high keen that breaks and reforms as she bites it down.
I test one more thing. The sound of the plug being lubed and flexed is unmistakable, and she hisses, “Fuck,” into her arm.
The cursing is permission, not obedience, and I reward it by working the plug deeper, patient and methodical, a conqueror in no rush.
Her knuckles strain against the leather.
Her spine twists between agony and rapture.
She can’t see me, but she knows I am watching every microexpression, every tremor.
I pause with the plug at the threshold, letting her feel the full circumference, and then push, slow, inexorable.
She gasps. Not in protest, but in astonishment at her own capacity. I leave it in, humming with potential.
The room is awash with the scent of her, the furniture saturated with her sweat and pheromones. I wonder, briefly, if she knows how animal she looks—ass out, wrists bound, face covered, the entire will to fight condensed into a singular riot of color and wild devotion.
I give her more. The wheel traces its cruel geometry up her inner thigh, drawing a red script that only I can read. I pace each pass with a stroke of my cock, the shudder of her anticipation feeding the pulse in my fingers.
When I finally press against her, the whimper she gives is almost a sob. She wants me to fuck her. She wants it so badly, it wrecks the air in the room.
I leave her hollow, wanting, for a beat longer, testing the limit between pain and need. Then I unzip and drive into her in one slow, devastating thrust.
She screams, her arms going taut behind the desk. The restraints hold perfectly. She flexes around me, the inside of her burning hot, every muscle trying to wring from me what I refuse to give too quickly.
I pull back. Wait. Breathe. Force myself not to finish.
Her body is thrashing on the edge, and I know if I gave her one word, one spark of permission, she’ll explode, rip the cuffs from the desk, destroy the equilibrium we’ve built in this house and put it back together molecule by molecule.
But not yet.
I lean into her, my chest pressed to her spine. The arc of her back is perfect architecture, engineered by our appetite. With the blindfold, she can’t see my face when I put my mouth right beside her ear and say, “If you want anything, you will have to beg for it.”
She shudders, a full-body tremor. The muscle in her jaw pulses, desperate to clamp down on the string of insults I know she’s winding up.
I fuck her again, hard, deep, unrelenting, until the desk groans under us and her palms leave damp prints on the mahogany.
She’s beyond words now. Only breath and the animal pulse of her.
Instinct, not intellect. For the first time, she’s no longer calculating.
The noises she makes come from the deep core of her, the place below language, and I want to shatter her completely.
To find where the old fractures end and the new ones begin.
I don’t. Instead, I grind my hips so deep that she chokes on her own breath.
Evie sags but doesn’t collapse. Her body is limned in sweat and defiance, every muscle holding shape despite the tremor running through her quads.
I run my hand between her shoulder blades, fingers digging into the place where her spine meets her ribs, and she moans.
Louder than before, a surrender that’s not quite abnegation.
She’s waiting for the next escalation. I admire her for that. I reward it.
Suddenly, I pull out, and she gasps again. This time, I let her space it out, let her beg once, twice, a third time, each interval longer than the one before. I want her to feel the nothingness, to believe I have left her bare and untouched, abandoned with every nerve screaming into the dark.
She waits, five seconds, maybe ten. Then the muscles in her arms and shoulders wind up taut again, and she whispers, “Is that all you have, Alessandro? I thought Italians were supposed to be dramatic.”
I smile—the kind of smile that would make my mother cross herself.
I retrieve the next implement. Cold chrome, a weight designed for the inside of her.
The plug is already seated; I part her with two fingers and trap her clit between the scissoring angles, not enough to hurt, just enough that she can’t move without feeling it.
Then I thread the curved extension inside. She sobs, the sound shattering and perfectly exposed in the blindfolded dark.
I lean in. “Still not begging.”
Another sob, then a laugh, half-choked.
“You’ll have to force me,” she rasps.
I consider it. Consider what it means, in this moment, to take away even the illusion of choice. To give her a container for everything too wild, too oversized to fit anywhere else in her, and then fill it until it leaks.
There’s a kind of violence in that, but also mercy. Structure is always a kindness.
I say softly, “I intend to.” Then I fuck her with the chrome wand, slow at first, rotating the ridges until her entire lower body shakes.
Her knees buckle, and she sags against the cuffs.
But she doesn’t slump. She never collapses, not even at the edge of shattering.
Her whole body is a live wire, spasming at every twist.
“Beg,” I growl.
Another silence. Her head whips around, blindfold askew, but she can’t locate me by sound.
“I’ll never beg,” she says, voice molten and ragged. A lie so obvious, she doesn’t even try to hide the tremor under it.
I sink two fingers in, next to the chrome, flex them in a V until she’s full to the stretch.
The heat around my hand is obscene, the slick a chemical glue that wants to bind us together until nothing but the core remains.
She thrashes, kicks back for leverage, but she’s melting into the desk as much as resisting it.
“Beg, or I stop,” I say. Not a threat. A law.
Her mouth works. She counts the seconds aloud, maybe to hold onto a seam of reason.
“One,” she says. “Two.” Pause. “Three.”
She makes it to four before she moans it, the word amputated mid-breath. But she doesn’t actually beg. Not yet.
I slide the plug in and out, each pass a deviation from the rhythm she’s built in her head, and after half a minute she’s warbling, a mass of stranded silk on the desk, thighs trembling so hard that the handles rattle.
The next orgasm takes her by ambush, not a crescendo but a panic. She keens, slaps her palm flat, tries to shout something that’s muffled hard by her own arm.
It’s impressive, honestly, how determined she is to keep that vow unbroken.
I want to see how long she can hold to it.
I let up. Give her just the hush of my breath, and the frictionless chill of the air against her exposed and battered skin. Her body sags, and her breathing spikes. The scent of her is thick as blood.