Chapter 10 #4
The sting was immediate. I gasped. My wrists pulled against the silk. The sharpness of the bite mixed with the warmth of his mouth and the combination was—I didn’t have a word. My back arched off the bed.
He moved to the right breast. Same treatment—tongue, warmth, then the bite, harder this time. I moaned. The sound filled the room.
His hands moved down. My stomach. My hips. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and drew them down—slowly, over my hips, past my thighs, off. He dropped them on the floor.
I was naked. Tied. Spread beneath him. And I was wet—wet enough that I could feel it on my thighs, the slick evidence of arousal that had been accumulating since the dream, since the dress, since the restaurant, since his hand in my hair on the promenade.
He looked at me. All of me. His eyes moved from my face to my bound wrists to my breasts to my stomach to the wetness between my legs. He did not speak. He looked, and the looking was its own act—possessive, thorough, unhurried.
Then he moved up the bed.
He straddled my chest. His knees on either side of my ribs.
His cock—thick, hard, the length of him jutting forward—was inches from my face.
He had pushed his pants down and I hadn’t noticed, too lost in his mouth and his hands, and now he was above me and the sight of him—the size of him, the heat, the bead of moisture at the tip—made my mouth water.
“Open,” he said.
I opened my mouth.
He pushed inside. Slowly. The head of his cock passed my lips and I closed around him, my tongue pressing flat against the underside, and he groaned—a deep, rough sound that came from his chest. His hands found the headboard on either side of my bound wrists and he began to move.
He fucked my mouth. Slowly at first, each thrust measured, controlled.
Then faster. Deeper. I took him—each stroke, each withdrawal, the taste of him salt and skin and heat.
My jaw ached. My wrists pulled against the silk.
I was being used, and the word—used—should have frightened me, should have triggered every instinct that said receiving is owing, need is weakness.
It didn’t. It made me wetter. So wet I could feel it on the sheets beneath me, the slick heat spreading, and the wetness was its own admission—my body saying what my mouth couldn’t, that being held and commanded and taken was exactly what I wanted, and the wanting was not a debt.
He pulled out. My lips were swollen. I could taste him on my tongue.
He moved down the bed. He knelt between my legs. His hands pushed my thighs apart—wide, wider—and he looked at me, at how wet I was, and the expression on his face was raw hunger.
“Please,” I said. “Please, Daddy.”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. I need you to fuck me.”
He lowered himself. The head of his cock rested against my entrance. I was so wet that when he pushed forward—barely, just the tip—I opened around him. The stretch was immediate. He was thick, and the slow, relentless pressure of him entering me inch by inch was so intense that my vision blurred.
He filled me. Completely. The fullness was overwhelming—not just physical, though the physical was extraordinary.
I had never been with a man like him. The strength in his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, the weight of him above me, the controlled power in every movement.
He was built like a machine designed for exactly this, and when he began to move—pulling back, pushing in, each thrust deep and deliberate—the pleasure built so fast I couldn’t keep up with it.
He fucked me harder. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place while he drove into me.
The sound of it—skin on skin, the wet slide of him inside me, the creak of the bed—filled the room.
He leaned down and kissed me. His mouth was rough, hungry, his teeth catching my lower lip.
He bit my neck. My shoulder. The curve of my breast. Each bite sent a jolt through me—pain and pleasure tangled so tightly I couldn’t separate them.
He held me down. One hand on my hip, one hand on my bound wrists above my head, pinning me. I couldn’t move. I could only receive—each thrust, each kiss, each bite—and the receiving was not passivity. It was surrender. Chosen. Given. The most deliberate act of trust I had ever performed.
The pleasure built. It climbed through my body—from the place where he entered me, through my stomach, my chest, my throat.
I heard myself making sounds — moans, gasps, fragments of his name—and I couldn’t stop them.
The orgasm approached, and I fought it, because I didn’t want it to end, didn’t want this to end, didn’t want the night to be over.
“Come for me,” he said. “Now.”
The command broke me.
I came. The orgasm crashed through me—total, devastating, every muscle in my body clenching around him. I heard myself cry out—his name, the word Daddy, sounds that weren’t words at all. My body convulsed beneath him, my back arching off the bed, my wrists straining against the silk.
He felt it. He groaned—a raw, uncontrolled sound—and his rhythm changed. Faster. Harder. His hands gripped my hips and he drove into me and I felt him swell inside me and then he came—hot, pulsing, filling me. He said my name. Ksyusha.
He collapsed. His weight settled on me. His face pressed into the curve of my neck. I could feel his breath, ragged and uneven, against my skin. His heart hammered against my chest.
I was trembling. My thighs shook. My arms ached from the bindings. The aftershocks of the orgasm moved through me in waves—small, involuntary contractions that I couldn’t control.
He reached up and untied my wrists. The silk fell away. He brought my hands down and rubbed the marks gently—the faint red lines where the fabric had pressed. He kissed each wrist. Then he gathered me against him—my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders, our bodies still joined.
We lay there. The lamp glowed. The house was silent.
My body hummed. The trembling hadn’t stopped — small, residual shocks that moved through me every few seconds. I pressed my face against his chest and breathed. He smelled of sweat and cedar and sex.
I turned my head. I looked up at him. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a way I had never seen — the composure gone, the authority gone, the Pakhan gone. Just the man. Just Daniil.
“Next time,” I said.
His eyes opened.
“Next time, I want you to come in my ass, Daddy.”
He looked at me. The words hung in the amber light between us—the admission of a want I had carried since the dream, since the dark, since the pillow between my teeth.
His mouth curved. Not the ghost of a smile. The real thing. Full, warm, devastating.
He grinned.