27. PET
alistair
Ariella freezes mid-motion, caught in the center of her own filthy little ritual—the kind of sin that doesn’t beg forgiveness, only exposure.
For half a second, she looks feral. Then instinct takes over.
She’s on her feet in a flash, ready to bolt—mask still in place, gloves forgotten, careless in a way she never is. Panic has already loosened her precision.
I don’t let her have the distance.
My body shoots upright with my hand firmly closing around her arm. I forcibly yank her over me.
Her body collides over my chest. The impact is rough, the shock of it steals whatever breath she had left.
A startled gasp slips past her lips. That’s all she gives me.
Delilah subconsciously chooses that exact moment to shift.
The subtle rustle of sheets, the slight turn of her synthetic body toward us, is enough to sharpen every nerve in me.
Without hesitation, I drag the blanket over my body, swallowing Ariella into the dark with me.
The thrill of it hits instantly, coiling straight down my spine and settling hard in my balls. My cock responds before rational thought can interfere. It rises with an eager, almost anticipatory tension.
I can feel it poking against her ass. She tries to move, but it only positions my cock between her legs.
Every inch of her tense and hyperaware body is now pressed flush against mine. Uneven breaths tangle in the suffocating space, brushing across each other’s lips in shallow bursts. I can feel the way she’s holding herself still—not out of calm, but restraint.
For a moment, I almost wish Delilah would reach for me—drape her arm across my body, brush against the truth buried beneath the covers.
I want to see it unfold. Want to watch the Triarch Dominion’s perfect creation react to something so fundamentally human. I want to corrupt their humanoid machine with something as crude as forbidden desire.
Lowkey, I want to know how they’d react to finding me with my stalker—the same one they wanted to experiment and turn like that of Delilah.
I let the silence stretch, counting the seconds by the rhythm of Delilah’s breathing, before I carefully slide a hand toward the nightstand to grab my phone.
The screen lights up in my palm, dimmed to the lowest setting. I pull up the monitoring app—a live feed of every internal parameter running through Delilah’s synthetic system. Heart rate simulation, neural activity patterns, and motor suppression levels.
If she’s pretending, I’ll know.
A quick scan of the ratios confirms it—REM state. Deep enough not to interfere. Unstable enough not to last for long.
Time is limited.
I slide the phone back, then peel the blanket away in one smooth motion and shift off the bed, taking Ariella with me as if she weighs nothing more than a thought I’ve already decided to act on.
Rather than fighting to break free, she wraps her arms and legs around my neck and my waist, holding on to my body.
That surprises me more than it should. No resistance. No hesitation. Just compliance wrapped in utter silence.
I wonder, briefly, what would happen if I stripped the mask off her face right now. Whether that composure would crack, or if she’d still hold herself together without the illusion of anonymity.
But not yet. There are better ways to take something apart.
Tomorrow, maybe?
Tonight, I don’t need her identity. I only need her mouth and the delusion she’s clinging to.
I walk us out of the bedroom and put her back on her feet.
“Don’t leave,” I murmur in such a way as if offering her a choice she doesn’t actually have. “If you do, I’ll find you out and fuck your decapitated head.”
She nods ever so subtly.
I turn away inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, and head into the closet to grab what I need.
Once I do, I walk back to find her like a statue waiting to be given purpose, standing exactly where I left her.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
I lock the bedroom door, sealing Delilah inside her artificial sleep.
Afterward, I take the leash in my hands, step behind her, and slide it around her neck with controlled care. I seal it tight enough not to cut off her breathing, but to remind her who her life will belong to from now on.
“Get on all four, little kitty.”
Surprisingly, she follows compliantly.
No questions. No defiance. Just lowering her body to the floor, hands and knees meeting the ground with too much obedience.
My grip tightens on the leash for establishing direction, leading her down the stairs.
I can’t see her face—not beyond the outline, the shape, the masked anonymity she hides behind. The only thing I can do is to feel her obeying just like a good girl as I walk her to the guest room.
Ariella Keinston. The perfect spoiled little princess to the whole world—filthy-rich bloodline, perfect grades, elegant demeanor.
But not here. Not in front of me. Not anymore.
I step aside, holding the door open, letting her enter first. “Ladies first.”
The feigned chivalry is an irony, considering I’m literally walking her like a leashed pet. And she obeys like one.
I follow next and slide the lock into place without looking away from her, who’s waiting for the next command from her master.
The leash coils tighter around my wrist as I shorten its length, leather biting into my skin as I tug her upward. The force drags her onto her knees, pulling a sharp, startled gasp from her.
“You want to suck my cock so much?” my voice comes out rougher than intended.
Her silhouette dips in a nod, barely visible in the dimness.
I yank hard on the leash. “How about I fuck your throat instead?”
There it is—that soft, helpless whimper slipping past her lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmur, already reaching for the spider gag I bought with her in mind. Always her.
Another sound leaves her, softer this time but edged with resistance as she tries to turn her face away defiantly.
I bend over and wrap my fingers around her chin, forcing her face up to look at me.
Her skin is warm and too soft for someone who thinks she can fight me and walk away like a winner.
“If it makes you feel better,” my thumb pressing to feel the indents of her teeth, “I bought these only for you, little kitty.”
The shift is immediate. I feel it in the way her body loosens beneath my grip, the tension melting into something more pliant, more willing.
I release her with a low chuckle. “Tongue out.”
Ariella slips into a role she was always meant to play. Like I’m something she’s been waiting for.
She’s wrong. I’m not what she wants—I’m what she gets.
The straps of the spider gag slide into place inside her mouth, snug against the back of her head as I secure it properly.
The metal stretches the corners of her lips, testing their limits. Her breath hitches trying to adjust to the intrusion, a soft gag catching in her throat.
“Now that’s a good little kitty,” I murmur.
Another small choke catches in her throat, lips stretching helplessly around the foreign shape. Her body squirms, fighting to accommodate it as much as she can.
“My turn,” I decide, leaving no space for argument.
My hand slides to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, anchoring her exactly where I want her.
There’s a brief second—just one—where she inhales sharply to brace.
Then I push forward all the way in her welcoming throat.
Her body jerks from how forcefully I dive into her mouth in one smooth thrust, heat and wetness swallowing me instantly.
The reflex is unavoidable, she gags.
An unfiltered groan tears from my chest, dragged out by the pure sensation of her tongue.
Her throat tightens, her body struggling to catch up as she chokes on my size.
I don’t stop. I’ve wanted this for too long to be gentle—ever since I found out who she is. My stalker.
The thought alone twists something violent and possessive inside me, setting me to drive my hips in a rough push-n-pull motion.
Ariella struggles to breathe. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She chokes this time, the sound raw and desperate.
“Relax,” I coax, though there’s nothing kind in the way I hold her. “Open up like a good kitty.”
Her response comes in the form of a muffled moan around me. The vibration shoots straight through my spine.
I pull out just enough to feel the loss and let her breathe for a beat, then thrust my hips back in. Harder.
“Yes,” I breathe out, rough with approval. “Keep doing that.”
She moans again.
Again.
And again.
Each broken sound she makes feeds into the rhythm I’ve set. My hand fists her hair, moving her head in sync with my hips, taking what I want and giving what she deserves.
I don’t hold back but push deeper into her mouth, slow enough to feel every inch of resistance, every involuntary reaction.
“Good kitty,” my voice is unusually steadier than the tension tightening in my chest.
Ariella lets out a soft, broken sob around my shaft, the sound vibrating through my length—raw, helpless, and devastatingly addictive.
It tells me everything without words. Pleasure tangled with pain. Want laced with surrender.
I drag myself out gradually, watching the way her lips stretch around me, swollen, glistening, before I rest the tip against her bottom lip. The sound of her desperately panting fills the room.
I give her a moment of break. Not mercy—never that. Just enough space to breathe.
“Is this turning you on?”
She nods again, quicker this time.
“Are you touching yourself, little kitty?”
Another honest nod. How did I not notice?
“Now that’s a naughty little kitty,” a slow smirk pulls at my mouth at the discretion, “and bad kitties should be punished,” and push through her lips till I hit the back of her throat, then pushing deeper.
Something in me snaps cleanly into place after that. No more easing her in. No more measured restraint.
With that note, I use her mouth as my little fucktoy, not giving her any more breaks to get used to my rhythm.
I push back and forth into her mouth with no warning, setting a rhythm that doesn’t ask for mercy.
Her throat fights me at first—tight, resisting—but I don’t slow down. I don’t give her time to adjust anymore.
And Ariella does take it like a good girl.
My hips drive forward relentlessly, the sound of my ragged breathing and occasional growl in harmony with it.
Fuck—she feels too good like this. Too perfect.
My head falls back as a rough groan of raw pleasure tears out of me. “Goddamnit, little kitty.”
Each thrust drags me closer to the edge of falling apart.
I grip harder, pace quickening with my control fading to dust.
Tension builds harder and faster with each relentless thrust, with every second, every helpless sound she makes.
At the last moment, I push down her throat.
“Fuck,” a growl rips from my throat as I come down her throat.
The release hits hard enough that my vision blurs.
I hold myself deep in her throat, forcing her to take everything, not letting her pull away—not letting a single drop go to waste this time.
She gags trying to swallow the liquid. Her body jerks slightly beneath my hold, struggling to keep up with swallowing my come simultaneously, and turning into exactly what I’m making her into—my obedient kitty.
Even after the peak fades, I don’t stop immediately. I keep moving, slower now, dragging it out, chasing the lingering high.
I finally pull back just enough to look at her, still breathless, still wrecked.
“Good kitty,” I murmur, almost as gentle as my hand comes down to pat the top of her head.
The contrast feels wrong. And yet so right.
Reluctantly, I slide out of her mouth completely, already missing the warmth of it. I hook the leash still wrapped around her throat and pull her upright, forcing her back onto her wobbly feet.
Ariella struggles to stand still while I work on the spider gag.
She coughs the moment it loosens from her lips, her body folding slightly, struggling to catch her breath.
Next, I undo the leash, holding her steady with a firm grip on her throat.
“Give me the hand you touched yourself with.”
There’s a pause, then I feel her hand move hesitantly, suddenly unsure if she’s allowed or not.
I grab it before she can second-guess herself.
My tongue slides over her fingers, tasting her, savoring the faint sweetness clinging to her skin. I suck lightly, moaning under my breath at the taste of her.
Fuck. She’s delicious.
Self-note: to taste her directly from the source.
Not tonight, though.
“If you don’t want me to rip your pretty little mask off, then take that window and leave on my count to ten,” I say, dropping her hand.
“One… Two…” I start counting aloud.
She fumbles with the mask and her bodysuit, hands rushing now, panic bleeding into the movements.
“Three… Four… Five…”
Ariella stumbles toward the window, her legs still unsteady, barely holding her up.
“Six… Seven… Eight…”
The window slides open, letting cold night air rush in.
“Nine… and—”
She’s gone before I can finish. The silhouette disappears into the darkness beyond, swallowed by the woods like she was never here at all.
“Ten,” I conclude softly.
A chuckle slips out of me as I calmly stride toward the window, not caring that I’m still undressed with an erect cock.
I lean slightly, watching the last trace of her turning into the phantom of the night.