CHAPTER TWENTY TWO #3
“My pet. My puppet. Babydoll. Baby. My survivor.
Each name is a brushstroke against my skin, ghosting over places I didn’t know were still sensitive. My nipples harden in the cold. My thighs twitch where they’re spread wide and held open.
“You know which one I love the most, though?”
He leans in close—so close I feel the heat of his breath fan across my cheek. His scent fills my nose: musk, gunpowder, power.
“Starling,” he whispers in the same fashion he said it while I was on my knees in front of him.
The name lands like a velvet collar wrapping tight around my throat. I hate the way it makes my body react—my cunt clenches, slick and aching. My breath stutters.
He hasn’t touched me yet. Not really.
And I’m already falling apart.
“You’ll remember,” he murmurs, so close I can feel the words warm against my ear, “whose name to call out when you’re pleasured…won’t you?”
I scramble for sarcasm, my last line of defense. “No doubt you’ll remind me, sir.”
Fingers close around my jaw. Not hard. Not soft either. A possessive grip that makes it clear who’s in control here.
“I don’t have to remind you,” he says. “Your body already knows.”
His other hand slips between my thighs. I cry out—a sharp, helpless gasp—and it betrays everything. I’m soaked. Humiliatingly soaked. He slides his fingers through my slick heat slowly, savoring every inch, as if he’s carefully reading the shameful evidence of my surrender.
“You’re already mine,” he growls. “You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
He steps away, and the sudden absence leaves my skin aching with need.
Then I hear the soft, unmistakable sound of his zipper sliding down. My pulse stutters—sharp, eager—and my whole body coils, suspended and waiting.
When he steps close again, the head of his cock brushes gently against my inner thigh. I can’t see it, but I feel it—warm, steady, insistent.
“You want it?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, teasing my entrance with careful, patient strokes. “Say it.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, biting back the plea beneath the words.
His palm lands with a sharp, wet smack directly against my exposed pussy.
The impact is firm, possessive, and sends a bright jolt of stinging pleasure through my core.
I jerk hard against the cuffs holding me in position, legs trembling in the wide X stance, a shocked moan tearing from my throat before I can stop it.
“You’ll behave,” he says quietly. “Or I’ll edge you until you break.”
He teases me again—slow circles of pressure along my slit, nudging but never pushing in.
“Say it,” he growls, voice thick with promise. “Say please, sir.”
I clench my jaw, shaking my head stubbornly.
Another sharp but measured slap. My breath catches.
Then, so slowly, he begins to push inside—just the tip.
The stretch is exquisite—sharp and aching and beautiful all at once.
I grind my hips without thinking, desperate for more.
“You don’t get it until you ask.”
I swallow hard. My body trembles. The blindfold makes everything sharper—darker—more raw. I can’t see his face. I can’t read his eyes.
I’m drowning in need.
“Please…sir.”
He slams into me in one fierce thrust, and I cry out—high and broken—as he fills me completely, burying himself to the hilt.
My arms strain against the cuffs. My head tips back, lost to the sensation.
He fucks me like he’s claiming me—not just my body, but something deeper.
Each powerful thrust rocks my entire body, pulling hard against the cuffs biting into my wrists and ankles.
I can only take what he gives me. His hips drive forward, burying every inch deep inside me again and again, the force of every stroke yanking on my bindings and making my arms and legs strain against the restraints.
His hands grip my spread thighs tightly, fingers digging into my flesh as he fucks me with deep, possessive strokes, using the tension to pull me onto him harder.
I’m lost—to him, to the moment, to the darkness.
“Good girl,” he breathes, voice thick with something raw and tender. “Just like that, my sweet innocent survivor.”
The words should wreck me. Instead, in the blinding white heat of pleasure, my mind betrays me.
Shoomaker.
I see him — strong, steady, pulling me out of that nightmare compound, carrying me to safety. The man who actually saved me.
A devastating wave of guilt and longing crashes into the pleasure. I shatter.
I scream the Warden’s name—internally screaming Shoomaker’s name—as my orgasm tears through me like lightning, violent and uncontrollable.
My body convulses hard against the restraints, wrists and ankles yanking desperately at the bindings, every muscle locking as stars explode behind the blindfold.
He groans, following with a deep, guttural release, slamming deep as he comes, heat flooding into me.
For a long moment, there’s only breath—our chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm.
The cuffs bite into my wrists. The blindfold presses firm.
My body is spent and trembling.
He leans in close, lips brushing softly against my ear.
“Who do you belong to?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
But maybe…he already knows.