Epilogue #5
He smiles. Cold. Controlled. He loosens his belt, opens his pants, makes a point of showing every step as if he were teaching me a lesson. His cock comes out rigid, semi-hard, already shining at the tip. And the smell is of sex, of power, of everything I need to run through me.
“Look at me,” he orders.
And I obey. I always obey when he uses that tone.
He holds my head, pushes in slowly, testing my reflex, and only stops when I feel the pressure in my throat, that delicious discomfort that makes me want more.
I don’t look away. I let him see every tear that runs down, every tremble, every time I swallow hard, trying not to suffocate.
He goes deep, as far as he can, then pulls back, only to repeat, increasing the pace, always on the edge of humiliation.
Every time I slide my lips over him, I feel my dick throb inside my pants, an unbearable pressure.
My hand starts to go down, wanting to unzip, to relieve myself, but Alexei notices before I do. He always notices.
He gives me a sharp kick to the thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough violence to mark his territory.
“No,” he says. Just that.
I moan, muffled by his cock, and I almost cry with frustration and lust. My hand grabs his leg, looking for any contact, but he doesn’t even flinch. Motionless, impassive, he just watches as I swallow everything he gives me.
The tears are already flowing freely, and I hear the sound he makes—his breathing heavier, the low moan, a growl.
Every time he pushes, I taste it, feel the heat, the brutality of possession.
Alexei holds me by the hair, controlling every movement, and I lose all sense of time, of space, of who I am.
When he feels I’m about to pass out, he pulls out and makes me look up. I open my mouth wide, showing my tongue, because I know he likes to see, and I let him slap his cock against my face. The sound is obscene. The pleasure makes me dizzy.
“Alex,” I moan. “Let me touch myself, fuck…”
“You only come when I say so.”
He shoves back in, even deeper, until I feel my stomach turn.
I lose all shame. I let the drool run, I let him use me, because this is everything to me. The feeling of being completely dominated, of having no control over anything, of being just an object in his hand.
I pant when he pulls me back, almost laughing. “Are you trying to kill me, is that it?”
He shoves in again, even deeper, and I choke loudly, the tears burning. My dick throbs painfully, trapped inside my pants, and I arch my hips, begging for friction that doesn’t come.
“Be quiet and suck,” he orders. And I obey, working my mouth, my throat, my tongue, doing everything I can to push him to the edge. I feel him get even harder, pulsing in my mouth.
The pressure builds, his head throbs against my tongue, and I almost come again just thinking that I can push the boss to the limit like this.
His hand holds my nape firmly, cutting off any chance of retreat.
It’s pure dominance. His breathing quickens, that fucking self-control threatening to crack right in my throat.
I force myself not to choke, because I want to see him lose control, I want to feel him tremble.
Every time he pushes, I taste the salt, the saliva running down, my pride going to hell. He moans low, a hoarse sound of pleasure, and my own arousal hurts, my cock crushed in my jeans.
He holds my head for an indecent amount of time, leaving his cock there, throbbing on my tongue.
Then, he pulls out before he loses control, making a point of leaving me on my knees, drooling, my breath bursting in my lungs. He loves to see me like this, fucked up, adrift, begging.
Fuck. My brain can only think of one thing now: I want him inside me. I want to feel the whole fucking thing.
Alexei pulls my face back up, forces my gaze to lock with his. He smiles that bastardly way, as if he could dismantle me completely just by thinking about it.
“Come here,” he says, low.
I go. I don’t even try to hide it. I just get up, hard with lust, and follow his command like a trained dog. Alexei pulls me by the collar of my t-shirt, rips it off me—my last disguise of civility—and I let him. I always let him.
His gaze tears through me. He examines every inch of the damage: the fresh bruises on my torso, the sweaty, throbbing skin.
The boss loves to collect evidence. Every new bruise, every crooked line of my bones, every time someone tried to break me and failed.
He looks and smiles, just with one corner of his mouth.
I’m faster. I pull him to me, my mouth pressed to his ear, and I speak softly, dirty. “Fuck me, boss. Do it right. I want to feel it tomorrow… I want to feel it all week.”
His hand is already roaming my chest, slow, cruel, and every touch makes my muscles tremble. He presses right on top of the bruises, explores every mark and every scar with his fingers on purpose just to hear the noise I make—a dirty, shameless fucking moan.
“You love seeing the damage, don’t you?”
He loves the worst spots: the rib that almost turned to dust, the recent cut that still itches, the spreading bruise that will be green and yellow tomorrow.
Then he lowers his mouth to my neck, bites, kisses where the skin is most sensitive, looking for where it hurts most. He knows, the son of a bitch.
He palpates every bruise, squeezes hard.
I let out a wet, dirty laugh and push my body against his, wanting more, wanting everything.
“You’re a lost cause,” he murmurs in my ear. His voice is scratchy. “Look at the state you’re in.”
My brain boils. “Yeah, look, boss. Look what you do to me,” I say, arching my hips to grind against him. “I can barely take it, fuck, just thinking about your cock inside me. Feel this. Feel how much I want you…”
He pushes me onto the sofa, effortlessly. He slams my back against the upholstery, rips my belt, tears off my jeans. Alexei comes on top of me, his weight crushing, imposing.
I don’t fight. Every time I touch him, it’s a free fall.
I open my legs for him, an invitation, a plea.
Alexei fits between my thighs without the slightest hesitation, his scent a mix of expensive French cologne and that fucking power that makes me feel both smaller and larger at the same time.
The tip of his cock brushes where I need it, hot and insistent.
I arch my hips, look up—I don’t even try to hide it. I just want him to see the hunger, the defeat, the little pride I have left turning into desire.
He pins me with one hand, with enough force to immobilize me. I could break free if I wanted to. I don’t.
“Beg,” he whispers, the command tearing through the space where I played at being rebellious. I don’t even need to think.
“Please,” my voice comes out scratchy, ridiculous. “Alexei, fuck me. Now. Don’t play games.”
He laughs. Perverse, affectionate. He obeys, but in his own way.
His tongue travels down my neck, biting lightly, drawing territories that are already his.
I feel his hand slip between my legs, opening me up more.
He aligns me, the head of his cock pressing, threatening, until, in a single movement, he enters, slow and insistent.
The pain blacks me out for a second, but the feeling of being filled is so absurd, so fierce, that my entire body explodes in gratitude.
I moan loudly. He stops there, inside, without moving.
He lets me feel every millimeter of the invasion, of the stretching, of my body claiming what shouldn’t fit.
I hate and love him for this, because he knows exactly what it takes to bend me without ever breaking me.
“Fuck,” I say, and it comes out in a moan. “You don’t need to be patient with me. Fuck me however you want.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pulls out all at once, lets the emptiness burn, and enters again, whole, deep, pushing me to a place where only he exists.
The rhythm is precise, training me to endure more, to never forget the feeling of him inside.
He alternates between deep, slow thrusts that tear and stitch my insides, and quick bursts that make my brain short-circuit.
Every time Alexei thrusts, I feel the pressure squeeze a spot deep inside, a bundle of nerves that shoots electricity through my limbs.
“Like this… make me feel you…”
Alexei’s hand slides down my waist, pulling me against his hips, crushing, guiding my body to mold to his.
My hands grab onto whatever they can. My fingers dig in shamelessly, embedding my nails to leave deep marks—I want to see them tomorrow, I want to remember.
The sofa creaks, our skin sticks together, and every inch of me exists only to be fucked by Alexei.
I try to touch myself, but he pulls my hand away, pins my wrists above my head, and shoves even deeper. His other hand goes to my hip, holding me in place as he fucks me, rhythmic, cruel.
My vision blurs. I swear I see stars.
He fucks me deep, again, again. Each thrust hits that nerve bundle directly, and I just want more. My whole body trembles, begs, and I moan loudly, without any shame, just for him to hear, just for him to know the effect.
“Fuck, boss… like that…”
I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just know that every time he thrusts, something implodes inside my head. I’m left breathless, shameless, without a filter. My entire body burns, throbs, aches for him.
I press against him, I grind, begging, and I can’t even ask properly.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down. He just goes deep.
The sofa creaks, Alexei pins me with one hand on my neck, his thumb pressing right on the spot that makes me lose my breath. My vision darkens, explodes in flashes. Pain and pleasure intertwined.
I lose any illusion of dignity. I become softer, more open, more on the edge, because Alexei never slows down. He only changes the angle, the force, the rhythm.
I feel the sweat running down, sticking our skin together, mixing the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and his cologne. The smell of dried blood, too, from new and old cuts.
“Alexei,” I moan, my voice failing, “I’m going to… fuck, let me come…”
He releases my wrist, grabs me by the hair, and pulls me up until I’m face to face with him. His eyes are shining, cruel.
“Come. Come for me, Griffin.”
I obey with everything I have. The orgasm is a shock, a wave that destroys all resistance.
I come so hard I’m sure I’ll never feel anything again, that this is the world’s last gasp.
My whole body arches, my muscles lock, but I can still feel him inside me, thrusting, thrusting, until he comes too, hot and thick and without retreat.
Alexei bites my shoulder, his moan muffled against my skin.
We collapse together, a mess of sweat, cum, and exhaustion on the expensive sofa that will surely never be the same.
He stays on top of me for a long time, his head buried in the curve of my neck, his breath hot and irregular against my skin.
I hug him, my cold metal hand a contrast to his warm back, and just… breathe.
The sound of the city, which before seemed miles away, begins to seep back into the apartment. A distant horn, the siren of an ambulance. The world outside keeps spinning, indifferent to the war and peace that just took place in this room.
Alexei moves, pulling out of me with a gentle slowness. The silence between us is no longer tense, no longer a game. It is just… silence.
I turn my head on the upholstery, enough to look at him. His face is relaxed, the mask of control completely dissolved.
He looks younger. More human.
“I think,” I whisper, “we broke the sofa.”
A sound escapes him, something between a sigh and a laugh. He opens his eyes and looks at me, and in them, I see the same exhaustion and the same peace that I feel.
“I’ll get another one,” he says.
He raises his hand and brushes a lock of sweaty hair from my forehead. The gesture is so simple, so tender, that my heart gives a painful jolt in my chest.
And there, in the middle of the mess we created, in the silence of our home, I close my eyes and, for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid to sleep.