Chapter 20 #2
The raw truth of her tongue licking her owner’s ass for no other reason than she’d given herself to him and he’d ordered her to.
Every reason in her world, at the moment.
He let her work there, silently, for minutes. Her mind fractured under the weight of it — shame curling through her gut, heat blooming low.
“Inside,” he said, voice dead cold.
She worked her psyche up for it, the moment her heat would enter him, and he snarled, “Lazy-assed cunt! Don’t just lick around it. Stick your tongue in. Come on — deeper, you worthless fuckhole!”
Tears welled, but she obeyed. Trembling. Mortified. Her tongue pushed in, violating him while knowing the real violation was of herself. Her pride. Her sense of self. Her personhood.
This wasn’t about giving pleasure.
It was about proving she’d crawl into filth on command. That she wouldn’t stop herself.
“I can scent how wet you are,” he said, disgust curling through every syllable.
“You get off on this, don’t you? Filthy little maggot, tongue-fucking her owner’s ass like the drooling fuckhole you are, crawling back to the filth where you belong.
Stop trying to pretend you fucking hate it, and you aren’t just three holes with a pulse. ”
She whimpered. Her face burned. Her thighs trembled.
She did hate it.
And still, her cunt clenched around emptiness, needy and aching. The shame tore through her like broken glass, but her clit throbbed in time to his words echoing in her brain, crawling back to the filth, three holes with a pulse.
“Get your motherfucking tongue deeper in my ass. Grind it. Don’t be such a miserable failure. Have some fucking pride in your work, fuckhole.”
Her tongue ached. Her jaw trembled. But she pushed deeper, flattened it, worked harder.
Because that’s what he wanted, and because this was the mud, and she craved it.
She didn’t know how long he made her stay there — licking, tonguing, trembling on her knees — but when he finally said, “Stop,” her body sagged with relief.
He sat up, grabbed her under the arms like she weighed nothing, and lifted her to standing beside the bed.
“Walk.”
She followed on trembling legs, heart thudding like it wanted to escape her chest. Silas didn’t look back, just walked with the quiet command of someone who owned the air.
When she paused on the medallion, he grunted, “Enter,” without turning around. She followed him to the bondage table, where the fucking machine was already set up.
A wide, blunt dildo gleamed at the end, thick and impersonal and terrifying.
“If you want it lubed, you should do that.”
She scrambled for the bottle, hands shaking, terrified he’d change his mind. He hadn’t praised her for tonguing his asshole, hadn’t even acknowledged it, and her stomach still twisted from the sheer degradation of it. She hadn’t done it well enough. She hadn’t pleased him.
Now she had one more chance to prove she wasn’t a useless waste of holes.
The dildo dripped with lube by the time she finished, and minutes later she was fastened to the table on all fours.
The machine clicked on, and the dildo surged into her cunt.
She jerked at the first thrust, the violation of it, the awful inevitability of being held open and taken over and over by a machine that didn’t care whether she screamed or begged.
It wasn’t fast enough to push her over, only enough to torment her, to keep her body on the edge of wanting while her mind tried not to shatter.
Then he climbed on the table and knelt in front of her.
“You’re going to suck me off while that machine fucks your cunt,” he said, voice cold and low. “I want soft lips. Wet tongue. Random between licking and sucking, with an occasional trip down your throat, and I mean all the fucking way, but not often enough it’s expected. Make it random.”
She opened her mouth, took him in. Did her best.
But the machine thrust again, hard, and her hips bucked, jaw jolting sideways. She tried to stay focused, to use her tongue just right, tried to—
“You call that sensual?” he snapped. “You look like a bobblehead doll on a broken spring.”
Shame boiled under her skin, hot and thick. She whimpered around his cock.
“No, no, keep going,” he sneered. “I want to see just how bad you are at this.”
She swallowed him again, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling, but the moment she found a rhythm, the machine rammed deep and her body convulsed, breaking everything.
She gagged. Coughed. Lost him again.
He yanked her hair hard enough to hurt. “Pathetic. You can’t even suck cock while getting fucked by a machine. What can you do?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she gasped, spit smeared across her chin, her pride in tatters.
“You should be.”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t pull back or soften. He barked orders, gave her cruel commands — slow here, swirl there, now shove it deep like you mean it. And every time she got close to doing it right, the machine fucked her just wrong enough to ruin it.
She wasn’t a woman anymore. Just a body. Holes. A disobedient little failure in restraints, a filthy, broken fucktoy trying and failing to serve.
He sighed, climbed off the table, turned off the machine, unstrapped her limbs, and walked away without a word.
She pulled herself off the machine with relief. Her jaw ached from strain, her cunt pulsed, clenching around nothing, her need so sharp it felt like hunger, but she followed him on shaking limbs, naked and humiliated, around the fucking bench.
And saw what waited for her next.
A massive dildo mounted to the floor, thick as a mason jar, grotesquely long, obscene. Wider than Boone. Her breath caught. Her belly clenched in dread.
“Floor, bitch. Straddle it like you’re riding a cock. You know how to do that at least, don’t you?”
She stared at him — eyes wide, throat working — but didn’t speak.
“You have three minutes. If you can get yourself off in that time, and if you beg pretty enough for an orgasm, you can come. If not?” He shrugged. “We’ll try again in two days.”
Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She stepped over it, knees already shaking, lowered herself like a whore on display, her cunt aching from the earlier machine. Still raw. Still throbbing.
It didn’t even fit at first. The stretch was monstrous. Inhuman. Her body screamed.
But her need was louder than her pride, so she tried.
And Silas stood four feet away, arms folded, watching with cold detachment as she lowered herself again… and again… and again.
“I won’t give permission for the orgasm if you don’t make it all the way down.”
The words snapped through her like a whip. She flinched and then forced her body lower.
It was mounted on a rounded base, high enough she could sit all the way down if she could just open far enough, take it deep enough, but it was too wide. Too long. Her pussy spasmed with resistance, trying to reject it.
Her hips fought to stop her descent. Her inner muscles rebelled against the invasion.
And still, she forced herself down. Again. And again.
Each drop deeper made her whimper. Made her eyes blur with pain. Her pussy clenched like a fist, and shame curled in her gut.
His eyes didn’t blink.
She closed her own. Thought about her tongue in his asshole. His voice mocking, calling her pathetic. The gagging. The failure. Her shame.
Her clit throbbed.
The humiliation made her body respond a thousand times more than it’d ever managed when praised.
She braced her thighs. Breathed out slow. Dropped another half-inch. Then another. The burn was searing, a stretch so brutal it felt like her cunt might split. Her hands clutched at her knees to keep from falling apart.
Her pussy fought it every second. But her arousal surged. That aching, desperate place between want and fear, the one Silas lived for, bloomed.
She bottomed out with a choking sound.
Pain detonated in her gut. The thick head slammed her cervix, the impact like a punch from inside. Her shoulders curled forward. Her whole body clenched.
It hurt. God, it hurt.
And she still wasn’t close enough.
She moved with tiny, desperate bounces that made her whimper through clenched teeth while she traveled up and down over that impossible length. Her body burned, her thighs screamed, and her cunt felt flayed open.
She didn’t care.
Shame wrapped around her like fire and everything — the stretch, the failure, the object she’d become — turned into friction and heat and need.
She was going to come or die trying.
Thirty thrusts. Forty. She didn’t count anymore. Her vision swam.
She looked up through tears.
“Please.”
His brow lifted a tiny fraction.
“Please, Sir,” she begged, voice ragged. “I’m full. It’s so deep. It hurts. Please let me come.”
He walked a slow, cruel circle, boots heavy on the floor.
“Look at this ruined little cunt,” he murmured. “Stretched wider than Boone. Bruised up to your throat. And still begging.”
Her face crumpled. A sob tore from her chest. Her clit throbbed like it had its own heartbeat.
“Please, Sir. Please. I need—”
“You may come.”
It detonated.
Her body convulsed around the monstrosity, muscles locking tight, everything clenching and spasming, but there was no give.
No closure. Just the brutal stretch, the unrelenting fullness, and the white-hot shame of what she’d begged for.
Her screams were loud and guttural, more animal than human, but she didn’t care.
The pain wasn’t a barrier. It was fuel. The humiliation fed the fire until it roared.
Her hips bucked without rhythm, without control, slamming her battered cervix down again and again against the head of the enormous cock.
Her cunt tried to spasm, tried to flutter in release, but the impossible girth held her wide open, twitching around a shape too large to be moved by her muscles.
Her whole lower body jerked in chaotic, desperate waves, legs trembling, arms shaking, nothing left but instinct.