Chapter 39 Caligula
CALIGULA
Damiano’s free arm wraps around my chest, holding me flush against him as I pant and adjust. He’s…he’s much bigger than the plug. But having that damn thing in me all night, plus the lube it took to get it in there, means him plunging in like that doesn’t hurt.
Oh, it doesn’t hurt at all.
But I feel so opened up, so completely filled with him that I can’t think.
He thrusts again, testing the angle, and then again, each movement punctuated by an erotic grunt of effort. I arch against him. “This what you wanted, golden boy? This what you needed?”
I can’t answer for a second. My mind is shorting out from the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of being so completely possessed.
By a Giuliano.
By this Giuliano.
So it takes a second to find my words again.
“Good work, Dami,” I grit out at last. “You sure showed me.”
He gives an unwilling huff of laughter and slides his hand up my chest to my throat, wrapping around it. But it’s not threatening, not like it usually is. This time it feels…
Caring. Like he’s checking my pulse or something, which, honestly, good instinct, because it’s going so fast I’m a little worried. He shifts slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and then—
Oh, God.
That place inside me, the one I’ve only ever felt with the aid of his fingers, lights up like fireworks. My entire body spasms, a broken cry tearing from my throat.
And without another pause, he starts to nail it. Again and again. Each thrust is a deliberate, slow strike against that bundle of nerves, pulling sounds from me that I didn’t know I could make.
“I know exactly what you need,” he murmurs, each word punctuated by another slam against my prostate.
He’s right, that’s the hell of it. My cock is so hard it feels like stone, trapped between my belly and the velvet of the sofa, and the friction isn’t anywhere near enough.
I need more. He shifts again, pulling out until his thick head is teasing my stretched-out rim, then slams back in so hard that the force of it punches a gasp out of me.
He lets go of my throat and my arms and wraps me up in a tight embrace, hoisting me higher so I’m up on my toes, impaled on his cock. I’m completely at his mercy, my legs shaking, my whole body focused on the feeling of him filling me, stretching me…
Owning me.
I feel a sharp bite on my shoulder, and then he’s nipping at the side of my neck, licking the sweat from my skin as he pounds into me again.
I feel like a rag doll. He’s right; I like being a fucktoy for this beast of a man, and that should be humiliating, degrading.
Clemenzas don’t like this kind of thing.
But that sense of the taboo just makes it hotter.
And then Dami’s arms lift me even higher, right off his cock, leaving me empty and aching. I wriggle around in the hopes that his dick will slip right back in where I want it. But all he does is cross the room, turn my back to the wall, and hike me up in his arms again.
I wrap my arms and legs around him instinctively. He looks straight into my face, lines himself up, and pushes back in, painfully slow. In this position, I can feel every inch of him disappearing inside me, see the sweat beading at his temples, smell the musky scent rising up between us.
He fucks me. Hard. Hips pistoning, finding that same spot inside me with unerring accuracy, over and over.
He shifts his grip, wrapping an arm around my waist to support me, and uses the other hand to jack my cock.
His grip is tight, rough, possessive. He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine, and I breathe in his breath, closing my eyes as I focus on the pleasure building up in me.
“You look at me when I’m fucking you,” he growls.
I force my eyes open. He’s got that obsessive, intense stare that he used to level at me when he first took me home. I used to hate it. But now it makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, the only thing he’s seeing.
It makes me feel powerful.
I’m the only one who has that effect on him. The only one who makes him so helplessly focused that he can’t think about anything else. And I stare right back at him.
He lets go of my dick and takes a handful of my hair, not tugging, just guiding my head back so he can slide his tongue up my neck. With his nose tucked just under my ear, he says, “You’re mine. You believe me now?”
He pulls out again, and I let out such a noise of complaint that he puts his hand over my mouth, chuckling breathlessly and shushing me. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs, and guides his cock back into me again. “Just…hold on, I guess.”
He hoists me closer, pulling me away from the wall, and I suck and bite my way across his shoulders as he doggedly makes his way to the door, cursing as each step makes me bounce a little on his dick.
He gets the door open at last, and then it’s only a few steps over to the stairs.
Surely he’s not going to carry me up all those flights while buried in my—
No. He’s not. He’s making for the elevator.
“No,” I say as he punches the button. He’s still inside me, thick and uncompromising. “No.”
I’m not going down to that mausoleum again.
He’s already got me into that tiny space, pressed up against the back mirrored wall.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” he says, as tender as I’ve ever heard him, which isn’t all that fucking tender.
But I keep struggling. “We’re going up. Up, Caligula.
I won’t—I won’t put you down there again, I promise, fuck, I promise—look—” He reaches for the brass panel and hits the button for his bedroom floor, not the fingerprint scanner that goes down to the basement.
I’m so relieved that I slump in his arms, and he has to hoist me back up, grimacing as the movement makes me clamp harder on him. He lets out a pained sound. “If you move too much, you’re gonna make me shoot my load right here,” he warns me.
He’s finally going to come for me. In me. I want that. I want him to lose control.
I wriggle again experimentally.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, slamming one big palm flat against the mirror above my head. “I’m serious, golden boy. Stop that.”
So I stop moving. But I don’t stop clenching around him in a slow, rhythmic pulse. His head drops to my shoulder, and I can hear him panting. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he murmurs.
The elevator doors open. He practically stumbles out, and I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, helping to take some of my weight.
We’re in the familiar corridor that leads to his bedroom.
He doesn’t even bother with the light when we get in there, just kicks the door shut behind us, plunging us into the same absolute darkness as before.
Despite the lack of light, he seems to know exactly where he’s going, but when I feel him bending over, gravity tearing me from him, I cling tighter in panic.
“Easy. It’s the bed.” He lets me down onto it with a gentleness I didn’t anticipate, laying me out on my back, his cock still deep inside me.
I feel him moving, shrugging, and realize he’s undressing, that he won’t even pull out to make it easier.
And then he stretches out over me, covering me with his body, his chest a furnace against my sweat-slicked skin. One hand slides down to cup my ass, pulling me open as he drives in deeper and harder, making me cry out. “Now tell me you belong to me,” he demands.
I press my mouth into his neck. “No,” I pant out.
With a growl, he slams into me so hard that I slide up the bed. “Say it.”
I slide my hands down to grip his ass. “No. You prove it.”
And holy fuck, does he ever.
He fucks me so hard we move right up the bed, and I have to put my hand out and brace against the headboard to stop our migration. I can’t stop the noise I’m making.
“Quiet,” he mutters, moving in me with quick, sharp jabs. “Unless you want everyone in this house to hear you getting wrecked.”
A wicked thrill goes through me. “Maybe I do,” I gasp out. “Maybe I want everyone to know who owns me, Dami.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, and gives a hard, deliberate thrust that makes me wail. But I’m beyond caring. My world has narrowed to the feel of him inside me, the stretch and the ache, the overwhelming pleasure…and the delicious promise of having him fill me up.
Because nothing on earth is going to stop Damiano Orsini now. I can tell by the way he’s breathing, by the way his hips are moving, by the feel of the sweat dripping off him onto my chest—he’s close.
He’s close, and it’s going to be a torrent.
He arches up, pulling almost all the way out again until just the head of that massive dick is stretching my rim. “You want proof?” he pants. “Fucking take it.”
With that, he slams back into me, and I feel it, the flood of him filling me up so completely that I think I might drown. He grunts with every pulse of his cock, marking me as his from the inside out.
He collapses onto me, but I don’t want him to move. I want to stay connected to him like this for as long as possible. He’s heavy, but I’m willing to suffocate for this. His breath is hot and humid against my neck, and I feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest, matching my own.
We lie there for a quiet moment, our bodies slick with sweat and cum, the smell of it musky and overpowering in the darkness. I run my hands up and down his back, feeling the muscles there relax, the tension finally leaving them.
I’m still hard and aching, and my ass is sore.
But I’m content.
After a minute, he stirs, pushing himself up on his arms. His cock slides out of me and I feel a hot trickle escape, running down the crack of my ass. I make a noise of protest.
“Jesus,” he sighs. He shifts, then I feel his fingers at my hole, tracing the puffy rim, then pushing inside me, into that mess he made. “You’re dripping,” he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
“You filled me up,” I manage to say.
“Not even close,” he says. “That was round one, golden boy.” His hand trails up to my cock, which leaps eagerly into his palm as though it has a mind of its own.
I’m so sensitive I feel like I could burst from just the lightest touch.
I gasp as he tightens his grip, a slow, deliberate pull from root to tip that has my hips arching off the bed.
“Come on,” he says. “I wanna taste you again.”
I’m still a little disoriented, so when I feel Dami’s tongue swirling around the head of my cock, I cry out in surprise.
He licks into the slit, then takes the whole head into his mouth, sucking me right down, while those fingers return to my ass again, like he’s trying to keep all his spunk inside me.
The idea of it, combined with the suction of his mouth and the soft, insistent press of his fingers, is enough to finish me off.
I come so hard it feels like every muscle in my body seizes up, arching into his greedy mouth as he swallows me down. It takes a long, long time for the shudders to stop. When they do, I flop bonelessly against the mattress, exhausted.
He crawls back up to lie beside me, pushing me onto my side.
I assume he’s going to spoon me, but that’s not what he does at all.
He tugs at my leg until I let him hoist it up and over his thigh, then he lines himself up again and stuffs himself into me, only half-hard, so soon after emptying into me… but getting harder every second.
It’s sore, but it’s a good soreness. I feel that delicious stretch again as my hole welcomes him back in, and he starts a slow rhythm as he coaxes himself back to full hardness.
It’s less frantic. Less angry. He slides a hand up my waist to my chest and plays with my nipples for a while.
He’s only taking shallow little strokes, which I’m grateful for, since I’m still sensitive from my own orgasm.
After a while, his hand moves from my chest to my throat, fitting over it and tipping my head back. He picks up the pace, and I push my ass against him, taking him deeper.
“You wanted proof,” he murmurs into my ear. “I gave it to you.” The grip on my throat tightens a little, and my pulse hammers against his palm. “Now tell me.”
“I’m yours,” I choke out. “Dami, I’m yours—”
“Again,” he commands, shoving his thigh up under mine so the angle changes. It’s deeper. Better.
“I’m yours,” I gasp.
“Yeah, you’re mine,” he spits out, and I feel him swelling up inside me, making me so full I might burst. And just like him, I’m getting hard again, impossibly hard so soon after coming for him. But Dami is stroking inside me exactly right.
He knows me too well.
He knows exactly how to touch me, how to fuck me, what to say to make me so hot I can’t think straight.
He knows things about me that I’m still not comfortable enough to face, like the fact that I get off on being spanked, or caged, or having a golden dildo stuffed up my asshole.
He knows I like it when he holds me down, when he’s rough with me, when he makes me submit.
His hand leaves my throat and slides down my chest, my stomach, lower, until he’s cupping my balls, rolling them in his palm. I thrust into his grip, seeking more friction, but he just holds them there, a possessive weight that has me whining in the back of my throat.
He’s dangerous, but not in the way I thought when he bought me. He’s dangerous to my equilibrium, to my self-perception, to my sanity.
With a final thrust and a smothered groan, he comes again.
I just lie there and take it, my body shuddering with each pulse of his dick, my own cock twitching with sympathetic pleasure.
His thumb rubs over the sensitive skin behind my balls, pressing into my taint, and then his hand goes back to my dick.
He doesn’t even need to do much, just wrap those strong fingers around me and jack me a few times before I convulse in his embrace and start to shoot.
“Come on, golden boy,” he says, and I hear the lazy satisfaction in his voice. “Give it up to me again. All of it.”
I do.
I come so hard it’s almost painful, my ass clamping down on him like a vise, milking every last drop out of his cock. All he does is hold me tighter, murmuring filthy praise into my ear, and then tell me I better get myself ready for round three, because he’s not done yet.
He bought me. Chained me. Caged me. But he never really owned me.
Not until now.