Chapter 35
BIRDIE
“Almost there,” Bell murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”
It’s a few weeks later, the evening of the gala, and I’m bent over Bell’s kitchen table, with black satin shoved up to my waist and my face buried in my arms. I’m making low, muffled noises, and my high heels are shifting on the floor as I try and fail not to squirm.
He is sliding into my backside with cruel, unrelenting patience.
“Shh, I know, I know,” comes his soft croon. “Breathe for me.”
I try and try, and I’m shaking and clammy and goose bumps are everywhere, and I just don’t know if I can endure this.
The invasion is setting off alarms up and down my nerve endings, and the pressure isn’t pressure at all—it’s pain.
It’s pain despite the overly generous amount of lube slicked between us, despite the play beforehand, despite the toys I’ve had there before.
It’s impossible not to tense against it, impossible not to brace.
“Sweet thing,” Bell says with pity. “This is the worst part, I promise.”
“Like you would know,” I mumble, resisting the urge to roll my forehead on my hands in an effort to self-soothe. I’ve done my hair and makeup for the event tonight, and both things took so much time and care that I’m not willing to risk my efforts even while it feels like I’m being split in half.
He laughs. “Oh, pretty bird. Yes, I would know.”
I think about our earlier conversation, the man in London. Maybe he does know.
Bell finds my thigh and slides his hand down until he’s able to cup my leg just above the bend of my knee.
He coaxes my knee up to the table so that I’m only standing on one leg and I’m now so much more open than I was before.
Above my hips, everything is a tide of satin, but I’m completely exposed below, and he lets out a long exhale.
“I wish you could see what I see when you’re spread open,” he tells me, lust making his voice raw.
“Your gorgeous legs. Your amazing ass. Your cunt is so sweet like this, wet and begging for me, and I can see the pretty star of your asshole. It’s so small compared to what I’m trying to put in there.
” He resumes pushing inward, one hand guiding his thick erection, the other on the cheek currently lifted from my new position with a knee on the table.
“It’s just the head that hurts,” he assures me.
“Bear down on me, just like with your toys, and together we’ll make it through. ”
“Together,” I gasp as he wedges in and in and in. “Like—this is—so hard on you—”
There’s a feeling almost like a pop as his glans slips past the tightly muscled ring and fully into my body, and he groans like he’s been shot.
“You have no fucking idea how hard this is on me,” he replies hoarsely.
“I’m not going to—oh my God, Birdie, even through the condom, it’s so good. What the fuck—what the fuck—”
He’s pushed in a few more inches, and I’m squirming so hard that he has to grab me by the hip and by the thigh up on the table.
It’s not agony anymore, but it’s also not a feeling I can properly catalog.
It can’t be pleasure, but the primitive sliding of him, the raw, biological reality of friction and intrusion—it’s almost like it could be.
And then there’s Bell himself behind me, a large hand on my thigh, the harsh breathing of a man enjoying himself, the undeniable strength of him as he holds me open on the table to fuck me.
I lift my head, and directly in front of me, I see us in the glass reflection of his office wall, my stolen breath curling even farther away from my chest as I take in the sight.
Him in his tuxedo, jacket still on, bow tie still knotted, his hair straightened and styled sleekly back like a movie star’s.
His hard jaw is clenched as he looks down to where he’s just hilted himself inside the last place he has claimed, and he looks so put-together right now and also like someone possessed, his expression so eerily uncivilized as he runs his hands up to my cheeks and spreads them ever farther apart.
And then there’s me, looking prettier than I ever have, my curls pinned up and my lashes dark, my lips painted red for the first time in my life, with the fanciest dress I’ve ever worn crumpled up around my waist while I’m being rammed into.
Lust tears through me like a cyclone, carving me open, and I’m left upturned, strewn, flung to the horizon.
His beauty, his brutal appetites, the luxurious clothes framing the absolute villainy of what he’s doing to my body—all of it is enough to upturn everything into a churn and storm of arousal.
I don’t think I can come like this, but I’ll be begging for it by the time he’s done.
Bell lifts his ice-blue eyes to meet mine in the glass, and I think he sees the same thing I see: the sumptuous dress, the immaculate tuxedo, the indelicate pose.
And in the reflection, there is no bare skin at all, nothing beyond my wrists and the top of my chest above the demure neckline.
And yet the lewd movements of Bell behind me are unmistakably sexual, the situation so very clear.
“I have to pump now, Birdie,” Bell tells me, voice still hoarse.
He bends over me to kiss my temple, and the shift in position sends electricity arcing and sparking over my skin, burns the air right out of my lungs.
His testicles are pressed against my cunt; he’s so deep that I can feel the hair above his cock tickling me. “Will you be okay?” he asks.
I nod, panting, only a heartbeat away from…
from… I don’t even know what. Not using my escape hatch of telling him I want to leave and not asking him to stop, because being used this crudely is life-changingly erotic, something I know I’ll be thinking about for years after all this is over.
But I need to beg for something, even if I don’t know what it is.
He strokes my thigh as he kisses my temple. “Do you want to fight back a little? Tell me no? I know you won’t mean it unless you say you want to leave.”
“Yes,” I whisper, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. The offer feels like such a kindness, exactly what I need, and he understands. He’s always seemed to understand this sickness in me. “I want to do it…but I need you to make me.”
“It’s okay, Birdie,” he hums, kissing my hair. “It’s a relief, isn’t it? To struggle. To fight.” He starts to pump, the shivering tension in his hands betraying the slow, steady motion of his hips.
I’m being wedged apart with the sheer thickness of him, the unending length. Having Ryan Bell fuck me in the ass might actually stop my heart.
But heaven help me, it is a relief to struggle, to fight. It doesn’t change anything, but that doesn’t matter, because I don’t want to change this—or stop or even pause.
I want to be honest. I don’t want to have to pretend it’s easy to endure things, even when they’re the things I’ve chosen to endure.
I want to be ambivalent and uncertain, and I want to complain and I want to have doubts—all while someone else carries the certainty and the conviction and intention for me still.
God does that, I think faintly. And now Ryan Bell too.
“It hurts,” I breathe, trying to wriggle away. “It hurts. Please.”
With a grunt, Bell’s got a hand planted between my shoulder blades and a renewed grip on my thigh, but I try to pull away, stretch forward like I might be able to pull my other leg onto the table and crawl away.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he says and laughs darkly, then pins me harder to the table, first with his hand between my shoulders and then with his own body, folding over me so his chest is to my back and his arms are wrapped underneath me.
His hips drive forward, not even leaving a millimeter outside my body, all of him buried up to the hilt.
“You’ll take what I give you, Birdie, every bit of it.
And I don’t mind making you, because you’re just too… darling…to leave alone.”
He pulls back a few inches and then strokes in again and then again. The table legs grate against the floor as the force of his thrusts moves the table underneath us.
“I don’t want to,” I plead, the words wavering in time with his pumping. “Please, just a minute, just give me a minute to adjust, please…”
“You’re so sweet now that I have you trapped here,” he muses.
His lips are near my ear, and I can feel the vibration of his words in his chest where it’s pressed against my back.
“But why are my balls wet if you don’t want to take it, sweetheart?
Your cunt is so slick that I think we’re going to leave a little puddle underneath us before we’re through. I think you’re lying to yourself.”
“I don’t—that’s not—”
What can I say? He’s not wrong. The small peak at the top of my pussy is so stiff that I can feel every beat of my heart there, pulsing in time with the hellish, heartless climax that is begging to be set free.
And the stretching, spreading ingress of him, the way it makes my belly cramp and my body shake with confused urgency…
it’s not pain anymore. He’s goaded my muscles into pliancy now, but it’s still not like being taken in the pussy either.
“You know what I think?” he asks as he rolls his face into my hair.
Even subsumed and literally winded from the force of his own depravity, he’s careful not to disturb the pinned mass of curls.
“I think you like being fucked in your hot little hole. I think you like being my little whore so much that it gets you wet whenever I use you, however I use you. And I think once I’m done with this asshole, it’s only going to take me a few seconds rubbing your needy little clit to make you come for me. Hmm?”
I’m trying not to cry now, and I don’t even fully understand why. The words aren’t the meanest he’s said to me by a long shot, and it truly doesn’t hurt any longer…
“It’s overwhelming,” I mumble. “You’re overwhelming. I—I don’t know how to feel.”
“You don’t have to know, pretty bird. You don’t ever have to. Not with me.”
It’s a comforting thought from an unsafe man, and he nuzzles into my neck like he means to comfort me physically too.
Right before he starts rifling his dick into my hole with a force and a tempo that has me keening out short, wordless cries with increasing agitation.
Short oh-oh-ohs that he seems to love, that seem to make him absolutely feral, and it’s so jarring to look up and see the perfectly styled hair, the tuxedo, the movie-star looks, but feel a greedy demon rutting in me, a monster.
Of all his features, only his eyes match the vicious physicality of his fucking, violent and obsessed as they meet mine in the glass.
He’s fucking me so hard that the high heel from my leg braced on the table tumbles off my foot and to the floor; he’s fucking me so hard that the smacking noises fill the space up to the industrial metal rafters.
“Birdie.” He rasps my name like he’s dying, and he somehow seizes me even closer to him, holding me so tightly and crushing me to the table as his hips work to rail me in two.
In such a tender, tight place, it’s even easier to feel that final swell of him, that impossible hardness like he’s been transmuted into steel or stone, and then with a whispered you’re so fucking perfect, he lets loose and spurts into the condom, all while gripped by the channel of my back entrance.
There must be a lot for him to empty, because we stay there for a long time, frozen, with the jerking of his dick the only movement between us and the occasional rumbling groan of pleasure from his throat the only noise.
And at last, he kisses my neck and eases up a little, taking his time to straighten and take stock of the aftermath.
“You’re an angel for letting me do that,” he murmurs, a finger tracing the thin, hot skin where I’m still stretched around him. It’s all slippery from the lube, and it sends a shiver of sensation deep into my cunt. “It was so good, sweet girl. You made me come so hard.”
He follows up the words with a sharp smack on my backside, the kind that will leave a red handprint for the next hour or two.
I gasp and drop my head back onto my wrists as Bell circles his base with his fingers to hold the condom and withdraws from my body.
Even being fucked hard enough to move the table across the room doesn’t make me ready for the head to breach my entrance coming from the other direction, and then the abrupt emptiness is almost worse than the intrusion.
Everything from my sternum down is a clenched ravel of suspended ache, and without Bell to hold me in place, my knee threatens to buckle.
One of his warm hands finds mine, and he moves it to the side of the table, where he wraps it around the edge.
“Hold on a moment,” he instructs.
I hear dress-shoed footsteps and then the slide of the drawer where Bell keeps his trash can. The running of the kitchen sink. The short snick of a zipper. I still can’t make myself move.
He returns, and instead of helping me ease my thigh off the table and back down, he keeps me as I am and then squats behind me.
I can feel his breath on my wet cunt and the lube-slick skin near my anus.
I can only imagine the sight if I were able to see it in the reflection, him entirely put-together in his tuxedo and me with my dress hiked up, already wet, swollen, and open. Already made use of.
He presses his lips to my pussy, a soft kiss near my clit, and then he makes out with it, tongue kissing, sucking and swirling and seeking, and just as I start to whimper, he stands up and slides his hand over my hip and down to my cunt from the front.
His fingers find my clit and press in to rub with firm, arrogant strokes.
He was right earlier.
It only takes a few seconds after that.