30. PEN
ariella
A quiet scoff leaves him as he steps back. Alistair casually settles against the coffee bar cabinet like he has all the time in the world.
“I need you to fuck yourself with it, Ariella,” his crisp British accent curling around every filthy syllable with deliberate precision.
He nudges his glasses higher along the bridge of his nose, watching me over the rim. “Go on. Show me how desperate that tight little cunt is for me. How badly it aches to be filled… if not by my cock, then by whatever I allow you to use.”
My eyes widen, breath catching somewhere between my throat and my lungs.
For a second, my brain simply… stops. Freezes under the weight of the vulgarity. The command. The way the filthy words sound far delicious in his crisp accent—polished, controlled, utterly depraved yet addicting.
My jaw parts before I can stop it.
“You’re drooling, little kitty,” he murmurs, amusement threading through his tone, sharp and mocking.
Heat floods my face, my body reacting faster than my pride can keep up with. My heart rate stutters violently under my skin as the reality of what he’s asking settles in—which I know is inescapable.
His gaze lingers on me for a fraction longer before drifting to his watch, as if what he’s asked of me is nothing more than a task on his schedule.
The dismissal in that small movement does something ugly to my chest. It’s embarrassing.
My lips press together, and I look away.
“Shy now?”
“I’m not!” I shoot back too quickly, the denial tripping over itself, letting color flood up my neck, spreading traitorously across my cheeks and the tips of my ears.
“Do as I said, and I might reward you with my cock filling your pussy,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to curl under my skin.
My breath stutters. I hate that it does.
I hate that he noticed it.
Something tight coils low in my stomach, hot and humiliating and impossible to ignore. Instead of obeying what he’s clearly expecting, I look away again.
“No,” I mutter under my breath, barely audible.
I can’t. I really can’t. Not when he’s watching me like this and wants me to put on a show instead of him leading it like he did last night.
The shift is instant.
“What was that?” he’s deceptively calm as he pushes off the counter.
I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut and tightening my grip around the pen.
Feeling my heart beating erratically fast in my chest, I shake my head anyway, pushing stubbornness through the embarrassment.
“I said no,” I repeat, a little louder this time, even if my voice still wavers at the edges.
A beat of silence, followed by a few hurried footsteps.
The next second, a crack rings out sharply in the air.
My head snaps to the side, a sting blooming across my cheek before I can even process it.
It’s not hard enough to hurt, but it burns anyway—enough to shut me up and remind me exactly where I stand before him.
“You just lost your reward for being such a bad kitty.”
Before I can recover, his fingers roughly close around my chin, forcing my face back toward him.
“Don’t mistake hesitation for defiance,” he says quietly and lowers himself to his knees too.
I shift slightly on my knees, clamping them closer.
The restraint bites into my wrists as I adjust my grip on the pen. The metal is cool against my palm, grounding in a way that does nothing to steady the heat pooling low in my stomach.
Alistair nudges my knees apart. The moment his knee brushes mine, something in me falters.
A slow, unsteady breath slips past my lips as my body betrays me and follows through on what he demanded.
I stop resisting.
My muscles loosen, tension melting in a way that feels humiliatingly natural—knees part wider under his silent command.
His grip on my chin doesn’t loosen but trails down to my throat. If anything, it anchors me there while his other hand wraps around my bound wrists, guiding them under my skirt.
My breath catches. I squeeze my eyes shut.
The reaction is instant. The sharp sting across my cheek snaps my head to the side again, a second slap landing before I can even process the first.
“Eyes on me, little kitty,” his voice is low, edged, leaving no room for disobedience.
His fingers clamp around my throat again, tighter this time, forcing my face back toward him. The pressure is enough that I can’t take a lungful of air.
A soft, broken sound slips free as my eyes open again, drawn back to him despite myself. His gaze pins me in place.
Blue—except it isn’t anymore. The color has darkened, swallowed almost entirely by something deeper, something heavier, until only a thin ring remains.
His hand moves again—knuckles brush against my most sensitive spot as he pushes my panties aside, never breaking eye contact.
I feel the shift rather than see it. The subtle brush of movement, the way his attention sharpens, the way mine fractures.
A whimper escapes me, which doesn’t pull a smile on his lips. Only that faint, knowing curve—something sharper than amusement and close to control.
The cool edge of the pen presses against me next. It’s unexpected and jarring against my overheated skin, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from my lips. The contrast alone is enough to make my breath hitch, my body tenses before it yields again.
He doesn’t rush. That’s the worst part.
Alistair drags the sensation out of me by leisurely moving the blunt edge of the pen gripped in my hand against my pussy lips. The cold, sharp edges bite into delicate skin, making a soft moan slip free.
He moves it tauntingly in a side-to-side motion for an excruciating amount of time. The torturous motion is testing my limits—how long I can hold myself together before I break.
My lip finds its way between my teeth, biting down hard enough to ground myself, but it does nothing to steady the way my pulse spirals out of control.
His gaze flickers to my abused bottom lip for a brief second—just enough to take in the effect—before returning to my eyes.
“What do you think others would say if they saw you like this?”
“Y-you’re the one—ahhh…” my voice falters, breaking into a sharp moan when the sensation shifts again, stealing the rest of my words and replacing them with a helpless sound.
“Careful about who you threaten, Ariella,” he says calmly, yet reminding me again who holds the power. “You might be a Keinston, but you’re in my territory now,” his thumb presses against the vein fluttering in my neck.
My mouth falls open to breathe, eyes threaten to fall shut again from the tension building too quickly, too intensely.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
The command cuts through me instantly. I freeze. And then my gaze locks onto his again, unsteady but unwavering this time, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
He watches me for a second longer.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, the praise low and controlled, and finally pushes the pen inside me.
A broken sound chokes out of my throat, my knees threatening to open wider for him, offering more, begging for more as he pushes deeper.
He seats it to the hilt, but not the way I expect. Not the way I want. He angles it so it’s my own hand trapped between us, my palm grinding against my clit instead of his knuckles.
“Now move like you’d ride my cock, little kitty,” he says softly, almost lazily. “Show me how much you crave me.”
The words barely leave his lips before I obey.
I start moving—movement too shameless and desperate for my fragile ego—fucking myself on the cold metal for him.
The chill shocks me at first, a sharp contrast that makes my breath hitch, but it doesn’t last. My body adapts too quickly, heat swallowing the foreign intrusion until it feels like it belongs there.
His hand cages mine against the floor, holding it in place, grounding me, controlling even the angle of my pleasure.
I roll my hips over it, slow at first, then steadier. Slickness gathers, easing the glide, making each drag feel dirtier than the last.
My knees lift and fall with the rhythm, every downward motion grinds my clit hand harder against my hands, every upward pull drags that rough length along my inner walls, making me whimper like his kitten.
My eyes flutter, then roll back completely, but not closing.
It’s not gentle. It’s not meant to be.
There’s a stinging sensation every time I take it in—the faint scrape, the stretch, the almost-pain that keeps catching at the edges of pleasure.
But it never quite tips over into discomfort, never enough to make me stop. Just enough to keep me aware. To keep me right on the edge where it hurts and feels too good, both at the same time.
Alistair doesn’t speak another word, no sound, just the quiet clenching of his jaw, the visible restraint in his eyes, and the subtle tightening of his grip on my hand.
He lets me set my own pace and go at my own pace.
I chase it anyway. Faster now.
A new overflowing feeling of euphoria starts to gather low in my body.
My breathing turns uneven, breaking apart into shallow moans and gasps. I can’t hold it together anymore. The pressure builds low in my stomach, spilling through my veins until I can’t tell where it starts or ends.
I give in—grinding harder, pushing deeper, taking more.
The world narrows to sensation—to the drag, the pressure, the pain, the relentless friction against my clit—and then it snaps.
Everything goes black.
Before my brain can process what the feeling is about, it completely stops functioning.
My lungs forget how to work, my throat locking around a sound that never quite makes it out. Then I feel my back arch violently like a strained bow, chest thrusting forward as something crashes through me, tearing me apart from the inside.
I must’ve blacked out. I can’t see. I can’t even breathe. But I can feel everything at once, and I want this to last forever.
Every pulse, every violent tremor wracks through me, every uncontrollable spasm drags my hips into it again and again as if my body refuses to let it end.
“Al—Alastor…” I choke out, the name slipping wrong on my tongue.
I force my eyes open just enough to look at him.
For a split second, there’s shock in his gaze.
It takes me a heartbeat too long to understand why—until it hits me. Not only did I say his name, but I said it wrong.
I don’t get the chance to fix it. It’s gone just as quickly as it appeared and is replaced by something far more dangerously close to burning desire.
He waits till I come down from the high and fall back, my whole body going slack with rapid panting.
Only then does he loosen his grip from my throat and gently pulls his hand away—too gentle for the things that just happened—taking mine with it, still bound, still trembling from the aftershocks.
And then he brings it to his mouth.
My breath stutters from what I’m about to see.
His tongue slides out, licking along the pen first. Cleaning it. Tasting it. Tasting me.
His eyes close for a fraction of a second, like he’s savoring the forbidden fruit.
They open again and lock onto mine. His lips wrap around the pen, sealing, sucking it out inch by inch with an obscene level of controlled patience.
I can’t look away. I don’t want to.
Even when it slips free, his tongue doesn’t stop.
It flattens against my hand next—the heat of his tongue burns against my skin. He drags it slowly over my skin, over every place still wet and glistening from what he just forced out of me.
He replaces it—my slickness—with his saliva, spreading it, claiming it in a way that feels far too intimate for what we just did.
Once he’s done, he grips the pen between his teeth and pulls it away, never breaking eye contact. Not even to blink.
Then he straightens and rises to his full height like nothing just happened.
But there’s no hiding it.
The tension in his body. The tightness in his shoulders. And the very obvious strain in front of his pants, one that’s too obvious to go unnoticed by anyone.
He doesn’t even try to conceal it.
Just when I’m certain he’s going to ruin me just like last night, Alistair chuckles and steps backward.
Before my mind can fully process what is happening, he’s already standing by the door, adjusting his cuff in unhurried movements.
“I gave you an opportunity, and you didn’t take it,” his expression suddenly too composed and unreadable.
With that, he turns on his heels and leaves.
A soft click follows, ensuring the door is shut, leaving me alone in his space.
I push off the floor to move toward the door, compromising my balance a couple of times. Even so, my steps are steadier compared to the pulse hammering through my veins.
My tied hands wrap around the handle.
I twist. Nothing.
A cold drop settles in my stomach.
I try again, harder this time, the metal bites faintly into my palm in return.
Still nothing.
Behind the door, a low chuckle breaks the silence. “Did you really think I’d let you walk out after all that?”
“Open the door,” I say calmly, even though my heart is thudding against my ribs.
“Don’t try the windows,” he says, casually reminding me of something insignificant. “You might hurt yourself.”
My eyes flick toward them anyway.
Tall. Old. Difficult. But not entirely impossible.
“You’re staying here until you give me your answer,” he concludes, leaving no place for argument.
“Are you forcing me now?”
He doesn’t answer. Soft footsteps fade away.
I’m alone. Locked in.
For a moment, I don’t move.
Then panic hits fiercely, clawing up my throat.
I violently bang my fist against the door.
“Alistair!” I call him by his first name, not caring about still being on campus. “Open the goddamn door!”
No sound. “Fuck it!” I scream into the void.
My pulse roars in my ears, loud enough to drown everything else out. Think. Think. Think.
Then I look back at the window. Fuck. I have to do this.
My phone pings, startling me in the deafening silence. With clumsy feet, I walk back to where I left it in my bag last time.
Due to tied wrists, I struggle to reach for my phone in my bag, yet somehow manage to pull it out and find a message from Adrian.
Adrian: You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.